The World Will Never Find You
by MissGabriellaXIII
Summary: Erik enters the secret world of the opera house's cellars and passages for the first time, and soon comes to realise that not all darkness is bad...Young Erik, coming to terms with being a 'phantom'.
1. Chapter 1: This Creature

_**A/N:**__** Oh. My. God. Not only did I receive my long-awaited copy of Kay's "Phantom", but I **_**also**_** got a copy of Leroux's orginal novel!! AAAAAAAAAH-excuse-me-while-I-die-of-complete-and-utter-ecstatic-delight!! Ahem. Anyway, this fic...I always liked the thought of a younger Erik running about behind the walls of the Opéra Populaire and getting up to no good. I suppose this one is more closely linked with the film version in some parts...A few reviews would be nice, too ;).**_

_**I have not mysteriously acquired ownership of the Phantom of the Opera and all related characters overnight, so it still belongs to Leroux/Webber/Kay. Enjoy!  
**_

Mist swirled in curling tendrils over the glistening cobblestones of the Parisian streets, illuminated eerily by the moon above. The iron streetlamps shone dim orange circles around themselves, making the surrounding fog and mist appear even thicker and almost opaque. The main streets were quiet and deserted...but further on, not all was obscured by the fog; out of the mist, looming up above the sea of pale, hazy white, rose the great, majestic form of the Opéra Populaire. Its windows were dark, since the late-night rehearsals had long finished, and its staff and performers were asleep. This was the hour of complete, unnerving stillness that nobody was awake to see...

Inside the opera house itself, the stage was empty, the lanterns unlit and the cavernous halls echoing with silence. The only sounds came from the older wooden planking as it creaked and popped, warping from the cooling air. Everything slept...

Everything, that is, but one odd creature that was hiding inside a hollow wall of the opera house's small chapel.

The creature in question was nothing more than a bundle of dirty, thin clothing, white skin, and sharp bones, huddled in a corner. It was trembling violently, its breathing irregular and uneven as it shakily raised its black-haired head. A pair of terrified, tearful amber-gold eyes peeped over two bony knees, darting from side to side, unaccustomed to these new, oppressive shadows. The young boy's thin frame shook again, tears of fright spilling from his eyes, rolling down his hollow, unusually papery cheeks and past his pursed, white lips. This place was so _big_, so dark and grand...the deep, impenetrable blackness frightened the child as he sat alone in the secret stone passageway. His white, skull-like face with its grotesque hole in the place of a nose was even more drained of blood than usual, almost luminous in the dark as he contemplated what would become of him. He honestly had no idea of his future - he still had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he was free from the gypsies that he had been with that very morning. This small boy who sat crying and afraid in the darkness was already a murderer...only a few hours ago, his mind had been filled with a blinding fury and bitterness, and he had lashed out and strangled the man who had held him captive. He remembered the greasy gypsy's dying gasps of shock and pain, the pure animal rage that had enabled him to pull the rope tighter and tighter around the man's neck. What had scared him the most was the secret knowledge that it had felt _good_...it had given him a sense of vindictive, dark satisfaction to see the large gypsy who had so often beaten and tormented him choking for breath as the life left his eyes. He knew this feeling was wrong - it was a very wrong feeling to have indeed! One should not _enjoy_ doing such a horrendous and terrible thing! The small boy rested his forehead against his kneecaps. _He_ was wrong. Everything about him was wrong: from his actions to his feelings to his ghastly face, the face that had robbed him of his mother's love and his freedom. If that ballet girl had not helped him, who knows what would have happened to him by now...

At the moment, though, he was alone in the darkness and he did not like it one bit. He was only a child; he was naturally afraid of shadow and gloom. Who knew what lurked where the light could not reach...? Who knew what manner of hideous monster other than himself could be hiding in this very passage? A child's mind is very imaginitive indeed when it comes to horrific beasts - but this young boy's imagination in particular was astounding. The creatures and people he dreamed up could become so real to him that he could completely lose himself in his own world, the world inside his head. When he slept, this world opened itself up even further to him, and helped him to escape from the dire bleakness of his miserable life...

Sleep...oh, sleep. It would be the only way to escape this darkness. If he stayed awake, he knew this gloom would never end. It was as if he was in a parallel world, where the night lasted for ever, and the only means of escape was through sleep. He would close his eyes now, and wake to find morning...yes...

Oh, but this _darkness_! This awful, murky blackness! How he hated it - how it terrorised him! In the dark, he was faced with his worst fear: himself. There was nothing, no colours or light to distract him from his own thoughts, from the dreadful little voice in his head that constantly asked questions about why he had been fated so! The skeletal boy gave a tiny sob, grabbing the rough sack he had so despised, and pulled it down as far over his head as possible. The material scratched at his thin, sensitive skin, but he paid it no heed - it provided a closer, safer darkness for his poor, battered self. He did not care that the eye-holes were on the other side, for all he wanted was the sense of security the makeshift mask gave him. Wrapping his arms around himself for comfort, in an unknowing mockery of the mother's embrace he had never felt in his life, the boy tucked his head closer to his knees, curling into a ball. He began to rock from side to side, crooning a broken, obscure song to himself, a haunting, wordless lullaby that echoed tremulously through the stone passageway. Slowly, painfully slowly, the strange child fell asleep, knowing that his life was forever changed.

Young Antoinette Durand hurried down the dim corridors, the light of the dawn casting a thin, feeble glow over the floorboards as she made her way quickly and quietly to the chapel of the opera house. She had risen as early as she possibly could, hoping to visit the chapel before anybody noticed she was out of her bed. The ballet mistress, old Madame Rousseau, would surely go mad with rage if she discovered Antoinette was absent...

The young ballerina ran light-footed down the long corridors and around corners, carrying in one hand a lantern and in the other a small tinder-box. She had a feeling of great, heavy dread in her stomach; she knew she had undertaken a huge responsibility, and it had a chance of ruining her. It was as if she had secretly obtained a wild animal, a strange pet that came with immense obligations and needed to be looked after more carefully than she could ever manage. For last night she had brought a child here, a boy even younger than herself, who had been treated like an animal but nevertheless required proper care. She did not know how on earth she would ever cope; she was training hard to become a ballerina here, and now she had a dependent small child that desperately needed her help and attention. Nobody could possibly help her with him, as she could never tell anyone he was here, for she knew she would get into grave trouble. Could it be described as stealing, what she had done the previous evening? Robbing a travelling fair of one of their exhibits? No, she had merely been setting the poor boy free - he had killed, but in his own defence, and would be put to death himself if he was found...and she did not want to think of him trailing around the streets of Paris alone and helpless. So here she had brought him, to the Opéra Populaire, and hidden him in a secret passage that she had found many years ago. But how would she ever manage to take care of him? Surely he would be discovered...

Antoinette entered the chapel, swinging the heavy wooden door shut behind her. She was barely fourteen and yet a huge burden had been put upon her shoulders - the burden of a child to support, and the conscience that came with it. Antoinette paused in the middle of the chapel. She had been about to call for him, but she did not know his name - if he had one. Instead, she walked over to the arched mural on the wall and pushed on it. The painting swung back like a door; there was no wall behind it, even though it appeared as if the painting had been done on one. A dark corridor stretched away to the side beyond the little door, and Antoinette hesitantly stepped through, looking all around. Her eyes were taking a long time to adjust to the gloom, and her heart began to pound as memories of the large man choking at the end of a rope held by a small, thin boy surged up. She hardly knew this child...what if killing came easily to him? What if he tried it again...?

Something rustled in the darkness, and Antoinette found her gaze sharply drawn downwards in the direction of the noise. She felt relief wash through her as she saw the boy there, his dirty, bruised body curled up by the wall. She noticed he wore the sack over his head once more; secretly, this made her feel more comfortable, not being able to see that fearsome face. The other young ballerinas had talked at length about the Devil's Child, reminding each other of the hideous vision they had seen. Some of them had even had nightmares that night of the boy's corpse-like face. Others, however, had scorned the credibility of the Devil's Child - they had said that he was probably just a poor boy covered in make-up, about as genuine as the Bearded Ladies they had seen (who had, in effect, not been ladies, but men wearing dresses). Antoinette herself had been more shocked by the child's treatment than his appearance, but still she could not deny that the vision of him had made her shiver.

Slowly, she knelt down, and touched the boy's bony, cold shoulder. Immediately the child jerked awake, body curling up even more as his muffled voice whimpered: 'Pray don't hurt me...I didn't mean to do it...he beat me, and I only wanted him to stop -'

'It's me,' Antoinette told him comfortingly, though uncertain whether he would recognise her. He sat up shakily and then turned the sack around over his head, positioning the eye-holes over his eyes so he could see. When his strange yellow eyes took her in, they widened, and he relaxed a tiny bit, though he still remained huddled by the wall.

'You...was it you who let me out?' came the soft, juvenile voice. Antoinette nodded silently, then after an awkward pause, put the lantern and tinder-box down onto the floor in front of him.

'I brought you a light,' she explained. 'I'm sorry I did not leave one with you last night. Are you very hungry?' The boy nodded wordlessly but with great vehemence. She knew that he was probably not very well-fed with those gypsies; his skeletal, wiry body was definitely proof of it. 'I will be going to breakfast later, and I shall bring you back something to eat.'

She could not determine the expression on the child's face, and he did not speak, only turning his head to one side slightly. She watched him curiously. 'What is your name?'

The boy blinked, his long, slightly dusty eyelashes catching on the sack's eyeholes. 'Devil's Child,' he said simply, as if wondering why she did not know. Antoinette shook her head with a shocked frown. 'No, don't say that - you are not a Devil's child! Tell me your _real_ name.' The boy appeared surprised at her reaction, and even more bemused at the fact that she did not consider him a monster. People usually took pleasure in calling him a beast, a demon, hell-spawn...but not this girl, it appeared...

For a while he seemed to think, looking away from her. His pondering despaired her; how could a child not know his own name? When she began to think he either had no answer or had forgotten the question, he mumbled something quietly.

'What did you say?' she asked him.

The sack turned and looked up at her, two yellow eyes peering through the holes. 'Erik,' said the boy, sounding more bold and certain as he repeated his name once more: 'My name is Erik.' An old memory seemed to surge up in his mind at that moment. 'I can write it, too,' he declared with timid pride. 'It ends with a "K".' Antoinette raised her eyebrows and nodded, looking impressed to put him at ease.

'Can you? That's very clever,' she said, and the boy, Erik, flexed his bony shoulders in modest embarrassment. 'My name is Antoinette.' Erik nodded his head slightly in aknowledgement, then looked curiously at the lantern and tinder-box. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Antoinette said: 'Do you know how to use it?' Erik nodded his head again, with confidence. 'But be sure you're careful with it; you don't want to set the Opéra on fire,' she warned him.

Erik looked up sharply. 'The Opéra?' he repeated questioningly.

'Yes, you are in the Paris opera house,' Antoinette said. The small boy seemed surprised. 'It's here that people come to watch the music and dancing.'

'Music..' murmured Erik, beginning to sound rather like a little parrot. Then suddenly his face jerked up and he seemed very distraught indeed. '_Pantin_! Where is he? I have lost him!' Antoinette watched his distress in alarm, then realised what he was talking about. 'You mean your monkey? You haven't lost him; he is over there, look.' Erik's head turned so quickly he could have damaged his neck. In an instant he had spotted the dirty grey toy lying some way away from him, and he thankfully crawled towards it, grabbing it in his strangely long-fingered hands. He hugged the grimy thing to his chest, eyes closed. It was a touching reunion - the little boy must have not seen where he dropped the monkey in the dark, and he had greatly missed it. Erik gently touched the monkey's tiny cymbals together in an almost ritualistic manner, taking obvious joy in the merry, bright little tinkle it made.

In the distance, the tinkle of the cymbals was answered by a deeper tolling of a church bell, calling out the hour over Paris. Antoinette gasped - she had not realised it had gotten so late. 'I must go - they'll notice I am gone. I will come back to you later with something for you to eat, Erik! And please make sure that nobody sees you...'

Erik nodded obediently, and she left him in the corridor, closing the secret door behind her. As she exited the chapel, Erik remained seated, stroking the small stuffed monkey's grubby cloth head. He distantly remembered his mother pleading him to stay hidden, just as the girl Antoinette had done a short while ago. Erik got to his feet, looking up and down the corridor...he was good at hiding, from experience, so he would have no trouble whatsoever...

'_Erik_?' the echo of a faraway voice called somewhere in the network of corridors the young boy had just been exploring. He had found an entire world behind the walls of the Opéra Populaire; a damp and cold world, maybe, but also a secret and unknown world that he longed to explore. Now, however, he could hear Antoinette's voice calling him from afar, so he reluctantly turned around and skipped back the way he came. His bare feet tapped gently against the moist stone floor as he ran, Pantin hanging from his bony hand. When he finally arrived in the corridor behind the chapel's mural, he saw Antoinette standing there with something in her hand.

'There you are,' she said. 'I brought you some bread.' Erik's stomach quivered in hungry anticipation. He had not eaten in _days_. The gypsies seemed to believe that the only reason they should waste food on something that appeared already dead was if it was too weak to cry out when whipped...he had almost forgotten now what bread tasted like. Erik tried his very best not to snatch it from the ballerina's proferred hand, taking it as carefully and as politely as he could. Once he held the small loaf in his fingers, though, he sharply pulled the sack from his head, without warning and in complete disregard to his present company. Antoinette's tiny gasp at the sudden sight of his exposed face failed to be heard by the ravenous boy as he tore at the bread with yellowish teeth, black hair falling over his eyes. He looked like a young savage as he wolfed down the bread, but he didn't care the slightest bit; all that mattered was the waves of satisfaction that were floating in his mind as he ate, tasting the familiar, slightly salty tang of the loaf.

All to soon, before Erik's hunger was even partially sated, the bread was gone, and he was searching his grubby hands for crumbs. Antoinette watched him with slight concern. 'You should not have eaten so quickly,' she said disapprovingly. 'You'll give yourself a dreadful stomach-ache...' Erik merely watched her, the expression on his fearsome face impossible to discern. Those yellow eyes were so unnerving; the way they shone slightly in the light was quite disturbing to those who beheld him. He blinked, then remembered the sack, which lay abandoned on the floor along with the toy monkey. He picked up the makeshift mask and put it over his head once more, then looked back at Antoinette, who hovered by the corridor's entrance. His head turned to one side in curiosity - what was it she held in her arms?

She seemed to notice the question he wordlessly asked, and so replied: 'Oh...I brought you some books to read, in case you have nothing to do. Can you read?' Erik nodded, a hint of pride visible even in his timid stance. Antoinette put the small pile of books down on the ground beside the untouched lantern and tinder-box, then gave him a small smile. 'I might be able to come back after lunch with more food...now I must go.' With that, she went out through the door and into the chapel beyond, leaving the boy alone. As soon as she was out of sight, he pulled the sack from over his head and knelt beside the collection of books. They seemed to have been of a quite random selection; some looked quite lengthy, others entertaining, some factual. He picked one up curiously; it was a weighty tome, with music as its main subject. His long fingers wonderingly touched the hard cover, running along the engraved letters before opening to book to peer at the pages of print. It would take him a long while to read, especially at his ponderous pace, but nevertheless it seemed to be a good distraction...Erik sat on the floor and began to read.

When night finally fell, the small boy was already prepared for it, and had set up his defences carefully. His lantern provided a warm, reassuring light in the foreign darkness of the corridor, and Pantin gave further comfort from the strange coldness of the stone floor, that was so different from the warm straw he was used to sleeping on. Erik lay close to his softly burning lantern, the glow making his eyes gleam from the eyeholes of the sack he wore. Even though nobody was there to see him, he still wore his demeaning burlap sack as it seemed to block him from the frightening gloom that lurked at the end of the corridor. He held Pantin close to his chest, relieved that the two of them were at last reunited after a long night apart. As he lay dozing, he realised that this had been the very first day that he had spent with his toy always in his hand. When he had been with the gypsies (how joyful indeed it was to refer to that time in the past tense now!), he had been forced to bury Pantin beneath a pile of straw in case he was taken away. Erik had become very much attached to the cloth monkey, proving that he was not a demon boy but a child like any other; and besides, there was nothing else in his cage to keep him company and help him to forget where he was...

He closed his eyes and curled up into an even tighter ball, basking in the lantern's glow. The fact that the deep, dark shadows had been pushed away further down the corridor was comforting, and he was greatly thankful for it. But the light did shine on his eyelids in a rather annoying way...Erik turned over, away from the glare, being careful to be quiet so as not to attract the attention of the monsters that surely lurked just outside the lantern light. After a short while, he pulled the sack away from his head to give his poor absent nose some breathing space, wrapping his arms closer around Pantin as he closed his eyes once more. The cloth monkey's head peeped over his bare arm, the metal cymbals cool and hard against his skin while the monkey's soft, grimy body fit perfectly against Erik's jutting ribs and collarbone. It was a moment of blissful comfort he experienced, after so long sleeping on prickly, malodorous straw in the musty darkness of a tent. Perhaps being alone was not so terrible, after all...

Slowly, ears still pricked for approaching beasts in the shadows but considerably more relaxed, Erik fell asleep, curled like a cat beside the golden glowing lantern in the stone corridor.

Breakfast came at the usual time the next day, in the form of a small loaf of bread taken by the swift fingers of the ballerina Antoinette. This bread was just as rapidly wolfed down, but Erik had been careful to turn away when he ate so as not to shock the girl with his awful face. For he could see through the brave indifferent gaze of hers, where there lay a hint of guilty but perfectly natural disgust. He tried his best not to care; he knew he still needed to steel himself against the revulsion of less tolerant people, in case he ever met any. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't, as he was loath to endure a second eternity of being stared at, cursed and spat upon.

After giving him a second candle just in case, Antoinette left, and Erik was free to explore. He had the entire warren of secret passages to himself, and he itched to discover what lay down the other corridors. For this knowledge, he was willing to brave the deep blackness that hung malignantly in the air...

So Erik set out along the corridors with only Pantin for company, walking light-footed over the cold stone floor. It felt so undescribably wonderful to be rushing through cool, gloomy tunnels, sharply turning corners and feeling a breeze on his face as he ran. Of course, owing to the limited amount of space Erik had formerly had in which to stretch his legs, he ran in an awkward, prowling skitter, since the confines of his cage had only allowed him to walk a few strides from end to end whenever his legs became too cramped. However, this did not bother him much; he was too wrapped up in the dizzying freedom of movement he had to care about his inability to run properly on his weakened legs. It was a shame that most young children had the ability to run and skip and develop strong, sturdy legs, while Erik, prisoner in the small cage, was left with no alternative than to lie in the straw and let himself grow weaker and thinner. What a terrible time it had been...he had not had the power to try and escape, and in those dark days that passed with each blow of the gypsy's whip, he had even seen Death as he lay dizzy and starving. Erik had often smiled at Death, and Death always aknowledged him courteously, for even Erik could find the striking resemblance between himself and the dark-robed skeletal apparition. Both of them were similar in appearance, and the subject of collective horror, too, though Death was most certainly not locked in a cage to be gawped at. However, even though the gypsy always loudly proclaimed that Erik was a living corpse, a child of Death, Death never reached out his bony arms to embrace the boy that was allegedly his own. No, Erik had been cruelly abandoned again by another, rather metaphorical parent, for Death always stood silent in the cage, hovering behind the large gypsy as he entered to give the child his beating, never saying a word and never putting out a hand to release Erik from the ghastly, beaten body he inhabited. But then, only a couple of days ago, Erik had found out that Death was, in truth, there for the gypsy. He had been watching as Erik strangled the man in a sudden surge of strength; he had not said a word, but Erik had finally realised that the apparition was there to take the gypsy, not him...no, the ballerina girl was the one who had come for him. And now here he was, skipping and tripping through the empty, long corridors full of nothing but gloom.

The darkness was not as frightening if he passed through it quickly; in fact, it was becoming more and more bearable. Erik scuttled on, and then came to an abrupt halt. He had entered a small, empty chamber that was not exactly filled with light, but was considerably less shadowy. This was due to the ceiling of the chamber, which was in fact not a ceiling, but the floorboards of a room above, having long, narrow gaps from which there shone a faint, watery light. Erik stopped and stared straight up at the long, thin lines of light above him, the round, black pupils of his golden eyes contracting slightly. He realised that he must be under a floor of some kind; he stood still and listened, but could hear no sound from above. Looking around, he noticed a short, dusty ladder, that ended below a more square-shaped part of the ceiling, which revealed itself to be a trapdoor, judging by the handle. Erik's eyes grew wide and he ran without hesitation to the ladder, climbing it with determination until the top of his black-haired head brushed the wooden ceiling. Then, he pushed on the trapdoor, and it rose slightly, enabling him to poke his head through. The room above was light and welcoming; all thoughts of being caught gone, Erik pulled himself through the trapdoor and into the room.

The room was fairly small, but opened into two corridors at each end. It was filled with ropes and hooks and pulleys, all lying here and there, waiting to be used. Erik hesitantly left the room and tiptoed into a corridor, making sure nobody was around. It appeared as if most of the staff and workers were still at breakfast, or in another part of the building, for the corridors were deserted. However, the warmth of the floorboards beneath Erik's feet told him that he was approaching a place where people walked regularly, and he was not supposed to be here. Cold, hard floors were the ones he must go back to - up here anybody could catch him, and who knew what would happen to him if that did happen. Erik was about to turn back and run to his trapdoor, when he realised he had emerged onto a landing that was right above a shiny dark expanse of wood - _the stage_. He could hear people talking down below in the huge room, but he knew they could not possibly see him. Curiosity getting the better of him, he lightly ran over to a darker part of the landing, then looked up.

Far above him was a criss-crossing web of thick wooden beams, from which hung pieces of large, intricately painted scenery. Erik looked at these backdrops admiringly, before looking up to the beams their ropes and pulleys were looped over. There must be such a lovely sight from up there...it looked like a secret and safe place, up on the rafters above the stage and hanging scenery. Erik was young and light - nobody else would ever manage to climb up and intrude upon his second secret home. Yes...he would climb all the way up there, and nobody would ever see him...

The rope beside him looked very promising indeed. Rough, sturdy and straight, it hung down from the beam it was tightly tied around. If he could just climb up it, he would be able to look down at the stage from an invisible hiding-place...Erik tugged on the rope experimentally. A small shower of dust and tiny specks of wood rained down. Brushing it distractedly from his long, curling locks, he gripped the rope at a point above his own head, and pulled himself up.

His first attempt was humiliatingly unsuccesful. His arms would not hold even the weight of his half-starved body, making him drop straight back down onto the floor. However, his determination prevailed, and he tried a second time - but again he could not climb up the rope. It began to become increasingly frustrating, as Erik pulled at the rope with mounting annoyance but to no avail whatsoever. His knees slipped on the ghastly thing as it twisted and swung beneath his weight, throwing him off balance and, consequently, flat on his back on the ground. Erik narrowed his eyes angrily, then took a flying leap at the rope, grabbing onto it with both fists and clinging on. He hung there, like a cat halfway up a curtain with all claws out, then began to dare to hope that he had managed to climb a little way. But as soon as he loosened his hold by a small amount to pull himself higher, he abruptly slid down, the rope hissing as it suddenly grew burning hot beneath his palms. Erik gave a yelp, pulling his burnt hands away from it, only to find himself not holding onto the rope at all and landing on his back once more with a thump and cry of pain. The rope swung gently above him as he lay curled up onto his side, nursing his singed hands and bruised back morosely. Erik haltingly stood again, wincing at the rope-burn between his knees and on his poor hands. Not feeling inclined in any way to continue attempting to climb, he limped off back the way he came, slender, pink-palmed hands tucked firmly beneath his arms to ease the throbbing as he retreated into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2: Ropes, Masks, and Mannequins

_**A/N:**__** Heehee, just finished the Leroux book. Erik's crazy little ventriloquism scene is so great...! I'm near the end of "Phantom" as well...argh, I wish there was more! Huge thanks to Carillon and AuroraSky for being the first to review:)**_

_**So, without further ado, here is the second chapter...**_

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After the mishap with the rope, Erik was very much disinclined to return and try to climb up to the rafters again. In theory, rope-climbing seemed so _simple_...but it proved to be not so easy in practice he had the burns to prove it. So, instead, he kept to the passages behind the walls and below the floors, feeling considerably safer and more at home than in the worrying light and sound of the open corridors. The cool darkness had become less fearsome to him now that he could see its advantages...

Now, he began to explore the other corridors, the corridors that led elsewhere onto other floors. He would wonderingly walk down sloping passages, up flights of roughly-cut, forgotten stairs, along hidden hallways that echoed with the sound of gently dripping water. There was an entire maze of abandoned, unused corridors, now completely reserved for Erik and Erik alone! This feeling of triumphant ownership made him increasingly eager to discover every single passage, storage-room and corridor - as well as the rooms that lay next to and above the dark tunnels. But above all, he found himself searching for a place to _stay_, to reside in, other than the end of the small corridor behind the chapel's walls. He wanted to find a safer, drier place to sleep, away from the sounds of the occasional person coming to pray in the chapel. The silent whispering he heard annoyed him at the best of times; whenever he would peep out from his hiding-place through a tiny hole in the mural-door, all he would see was a person kneeling on the ground in front of the small statue that stood in the alcove. Why would somebody ever want to just sit on the floor and whisper to a statue? Such things were completely beyond his understanding, which frustrated him to no end. Religion had always seemed pointless to him - why pray for help to a God who always ignored him? He could hazily remember the long evenings spent kneeling beside his bed entreating for his mother to love him, for his terrible face to somehow "get better". If God could create an entire world and make miracles happen, then surely he could change the hideous face of a little boy...? But Erik had begged and pleaded in vain, for his prayers never seemed to be heard. Eventually all traces of faith were lost, and the only thing he believed in was the ugliness of the world...an ugliness that sometimes showed glimpses of the beauty he always had been and always would be searching for, until he either found it or died unsatisfied.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

One day - or possibly night, as it was impossible to tell in the constant darkness of the passages - Erik was climbing down the stairways, slopes and ladders to the very depths of the opera house, his lantern held in his hand. He had been forced to reluctantly leave Pantin sitting in the corridor behind the chapel, as he felt more comfortable with a hand free to catch himself if he ever tripped in this dank darkness. The air grew damper and colder the further he descended, the glow from the lantern reflected back at him from the streaks of moisture that clung to the rough stone walls. Silk webs, laboriously draped like veils across the passage he travelled along by industrious spiders, created a ghostly form of resistance against his frail body; it was as if he was passing through a secret gathering of spirits, who were trying to gently stop him from continuing his rude journey straight through their meeting. Nets of barely-visible spider silk trailing from him, Erik walked on, stretching out an arm before him to part the pale curtains that caught on his lantern. He was glad of the sack he wore on his head now, as it protected his poor, awful face from the small black creatures that either lived or were trapped in the thick webs; he shuddered to think of anything crawling into the crevice of his nose like a flesh-eating insect exploring a corpse. The grey-white curtains parted and parted before him...Erik continued down the long passage, quietly destroying the webs carefully spun by generations and generations of spiders. As he walked, he marvelled at the multitude of hapless insects and flies that appeared to hang eerily in midair, caught in the nets all around. On the damp walls, arachnids of varying size and species crawled warily from the light cast by the candle in Erik's lantern. He gazed in wonder at a particularly huge one, easily as large as the span of his abnormally long-fingered hand. How these predatory insects enthralled him, with their intricate, delicate webs and their pincers that gleamed malevolently in the lantern's light! They appeared so monstrous, the way they spun their beautiful silk to trap the thousands of pretty little mindless flies that whirred unknowingly through the darkness and into those merciless gossamer threads - yet they created the most lovely illusions in the passage, lovely webs that waved gently and made him so unhappy to break. He felt an eight-legged being become caught on his outstretched palm, and stopped walking to watch it crawl quickly over his fingers, dark and swift. It began to fall gently from his hand, floating down on an invisible thread to the ground that was littered with the remains of the spiders' previous meals, hundreds of tiny dried bodies that crackled underfoot. Erik's lips were tugged into an odd smile as he moved his hand to the right, and saw the spider on the floor being helplessly dragged back by the silk still linking it to his pale hand. He pulled it gently and experimentally by the invisible string of silk, marvelling at the way it seemed as if his will-power alone was making the spider move where he wanted it to. However, this small game was put to an end as the spider quickly severed itself from the thread, scuttling off to the wall. Erik then proceeded on his way, musingly; he liked this illusion very much, and he decided to remember it in case he ever cared to reproduce it. He wondered: could it be done using an everyday object, and something thin but strong like a spider's thread? People did not often look very closely at things, and a very thin thread, pulled taut, could very well create the illusion of something moving by itself...

Carefully filing away this interesting idea in his mind for later, Erik noticed an opening in the passage, an open archway leading to the left. Without hesitation, he walked through it and found himself in one of the many large store-rooms of the Opéra Populaire.

This store-room was full, from floor almost to ceiling, with props. They were ancient props, from some of the earliest productions of the opera house, and had been put here, in this room that had either been locked and forgotten or just filled with more items that were no longer of use. Erik gawped like the child that he truly was as he took in the wonder that surrounded him; set pieces, rolls of dusty fabric, rotting wood with intricate carvings, books with pages yellowed by damp...he grabbed at the books first, eagerly harvesting all of them that he could see into a little pile on the floor. These were old, ancient books, donated from many sources purely for the purpose of filling the odd bookcase on stage, or of being held by actors when needed. They had been used as mere props, then been carelessly abandoned, but they were still full of interesting tales and old knowledge. Erik picked one up at random, flicking through the foul-smelling, wrinkled pages. This one was an informative tome with a dull-green board cover, about eighteenth-century execution methods. It included some rather intriguing illustrations, too, of the same sorry chap coming to many painful ends. Erik glanced at the ink man's exposed innards and trailing visceral organs with loose, morbid fascination, then closed the book and placed it on his pile for later reading. Already he had almost finished the few books Antoinette had given him to keep him occupied, and he was thirsty for more reading material. He was becoming more and more literate at a startling pace, effortlessly bypassing the reading skills of other children of his age with his feverish, almost obsessive reading, always searching to fill his head with new knowledge. Soon he would have a small library of his own, with all of these new books!

Abandoning his heap of cardboard-backed literary material in search of still more, Erik straightened up and went further into the room. To his right, there was an enormous mound of old costumes, covered in dust and stinking of musty mothballs. Kingly capes and exotic garments lay piled over each other, along with a large array of cloaks and caps. Entire spectrum of colour, though faded with age, still clashed with one another, different fabrics thrown into the same heap. Forgetting his search for more books, Erik gazed at them all, touching the different textures he saw with wondering fingers. He gave a sharp gasp and cowered back as he knocked into a hard, cold figure that stood tall above him, but then laughed at himself as he realised it was nothing but an old mannequin, its dirty cream-coloured fabric body moth-eaten but still sturdy. The mannequin's body was visibly female, despite the fact that it had no head, arms or legs, and he was almost level with its shoudlers as he was quite tall for his age. Even though it was definitely female, somebody had dressed the mannequin in a man's cloak and hat - whether this was for a joke or unintentional, he could not tell, but Erik found himself touching the hem of the luxuriant black cloak with open admiration. The garment was in surprisingly good condition, and made of a thick, warm material that smelt musty but not as malodorous as Erik's own well-worn clothes. The mannequin, being without a head, did not stare at him reprovingly as he took off his sack to press the cloak's lovely material against his hollow, stark-white cheek. The warmth of it against his high, jutting cheekbones was wonderfully comforting, and he closed his eyes, rocking gently from side to side in simple bliss. Once more or less satiated, he looked at the matching wide-brimmed black hat that was sitting oddly upon the wooden knob of the mannequin's neck. To amuse himself, he tried it on, finding it too large and prone to falling ridiculously over his eyes. The cloak, too, was most remarkably warm, but it was so long that it trailed some way behind him. This was obviously some sort of oddly-cut stage cloak - perhaps it had been left down here because it had been not cut to the right length, or in the right shape? It seemed to fit the mannequin well, though...

'I return you your cloak and hat, mademoiselle,' Erik told the dummy with mock-politeness, replacing the glorious black sweep of fabric around the feminine shoulders, but neglecting to put the hat on the neck. He gave a small frown, his almost translucent skin furrowing at the brow. 'You need a head before you can have a hat,' he remarked critically. 'I shall try to find you one; I shall not be long!' Putting the hat on his own head for safekeeping, he proceeded to search around, wondering what he could possibly use as a head for the mannequin...

Something grinned at him from under a large, half-empty box of candles, and Erik started back in surprise before rushing to it. He wrinkled his nose analytically as he picked it up; it _was_ a head - in fact, it was the very _essence_ of a head...but it did not seem very fitting with the mannequin's voluptuous patterned fabric body. Erik turned his head to one side musingly, then decided it was the best he could find and returned to the dummy. It was waiting patiently, and he shyly fixed the grinning death's-head on the wooden peg of the neck. He stood back and stared at the grotesque thing he had created, finding that although the skull was the perfect size and sat obediently on the neck like a real head, it made the mannequin lose some of its delicate femininity. Erik sighed, disappointed at his own incompetence, but approached it and placed the hat onto the dome of the plaster skull's head. He regarded his creation warily, feeling somewhat amused and disconcerted by its quaintness; it was an odd sight indeed, the body of a woman clad in a man's cloak and with an inanely grinning death's-head that wore a black hat perched at a jaunty angle. Erik gave a small, light sigh. 'Ah, well...' He looked up at the mannequin's empty eye sockets, his own dark-ringed, sunken yellow eyes filling with vague sympathy. 'I'm afraid you look rather like me now. But don't worry; at least this way you have family...' The mannequin stayed silent, teeth bared in horror at the corpse-like boy it now resembled after its blissful years of neutral headlessness.

Feeling only mildly guilty, but glad he now had a "friend" with whom he shared a similar appearance, Erik left the mannequin along with his hopes of making it beautiful as he had first intended. He ran a long-fingered hand over the sharp bones and absent nose of his own face, bending down to pick up his lantern once more. He had not yet explored the other end of the room, where there was bound to be still more interesting items to discover -

The light of his lantern suddenly illuminated a multitude of fearsome faces that leapt from nowhere, looming before him along with the further wall. Erik started, jumping back defensively...then he realised what he stared at and his eyes widened, body freezing in the sheer wonder of the sight.

Masks of every colour, size and description lay in boxes or in dusty piles, where they gazed out with sightless eyes and countless different expressions. Such a spectacle he had never seen before in his entire life. Here and there lay littered and scattered animal-masks, leering faces of white, black, gold and every other colour imaginable...here there lay the handsome, golden face of a prince - here, a diamond-patterned half-mask - over there, a bird-mask - and there, a neutral white mask with black lace edging - in that box, more hand-painted masks with curling designs and intricate decoration...

Erik's hands were shaking at sight of the glorious opulence that lay spread before him. To think he had worn the most primitive of cloth-masks and even a _sack_ when there was such beauty in the world of second faces! He looked about feverishly, feeling dizzy with the realisation that this great treasury of masks was unknown to all but him, and he could look upon them all to his heart's content...he reverently picked up a white mask with black, carefully painted teardrops that ran down the curiously blank face, then put it down again to pick up and look at another, then another, and another...

There were so many textures and designs - ivory, porcelain, leather, even _wood_ - and they were all so beautiful! Soon, however, Erik had found his favourites and laid them in a row. He looked down at them with great indecision, hesitating over which he would choose to wear. All of them were so grand and beautiful - to have any them in the guise of a proper face would be simply wondrous! And there were still so many boxes he had not opened yet...After a long, long period of hesitation, in which he had to pause to re-light his lantern with the tinder-box he carried in his pocket, he finally settled upon the most impressive: a black, deliciously powerful-looking mask that had long, fine male features and a tenebrous frown. Eyes dancing gold with glee, Erik lifted it from the ground, and tremulously put it to his face.

It was a little large - after all, he was only a child - but it gave him a marvellous sensation, the knowledge that such an imposing face was now his own. The absolute, euphoric power he felt filled him completely; his fearsome, deathly features were now covered by a gloriously dark and finely-cut mask, so different from the banal roughness of the burlap sack. Erik's long, skeletal fingers fumbled with the slack ties, making a knot in the black ribbon to secure the mask to his face. Mouth smiling behind the mask's scowling, finely sculpted lips, he straightened up, rising to his full height. He no longer felt the need to lope around like an animal as he had with the degrading sack on his head; instead, he stood taller, straighter, full of a dark dignity that could rival any king's. How curious he must look now: a skeletal, scarred young boy with stick-like limbs and the grim, shadowy face of a man! He almost wished for a mirror...

Almost.

Although the mask grew slightly warm and damp inside from the air surging in and out of Erik's gaping nose, it was light and the smooth inside surface did not scratch at his delicate, easily irritated skin. He gave a short, delirious laugh, skipping gaily back with his lantern to his pile of books. He stacked them up carefully, and was about to leave with them when he happened to glance back at the mannequin. It was grinning morosely at him, its face still as unnerving and macabre as the one beneath Erik's mask. He gave a small sigh, and put the books down before walking over to it. His yellow eyes stared into the vacant sockets of the skull with a look of pity. 'I'm sorry...I had almost forgotten...' he said, then added with abrupt brightness: 'Look at my new mask! Aren't I handsome now?' He turned his head this way and that to show every majestic plane of his mask, and then stopped as an idea came to him. 'Oh...of course! I know how to make you pretty - I shall return in a moment...'

With that, Erik ran off to the other side of the room, lantern swinging from his hand, the candle flickering behind the glass panels. When he arrived at the vast collection of masks, he visibly calmed himself, all the better to search through them with the utmost care. In one box, there were hundreds of masks from the city of Venice - one after the other, Erik studied them, gazing at the intricate painted faces, at the other theatrical masks that depicted the well-known characters of the Commedia dell'Arte...he peered at an Arlecchino, amused at the curling moustache and snub-nose, before picking up the ruddy face of Il Dottore. Although he did not know these names or the parts they played in Italian theatre, he could guess at their roles and personalities, and he would have gladly spent several more hours looking at them all - however, he had a task at hand, and needed to keep his focus on it. Carefully putting the theatrical masks back, he explored the other Venetian creations, until he found a truly beautiful white mask with intricate painting around the eye, and a most lovely design of musical notes upon it. Triumphantly, Erik lifted it, and replaced the other masks in the box. Yes, this one would be perfect! It had the same elaborate beauty as the long, startlingly authentic black-and-gold gondola he had seen resting on a pile of discarded props. This mask was wonderfully female, too, and would serve its purpose well...Arriving before his poor mannequin, he smiled behind his full mask and showed it his discovery. Full of pride, he stood on his toes and fastened the fine mask onto the false skull, lovingly tying the ribbon behind it. He took a step back and his eyes lit up. 'You look very pretty indeed, now!' he declared, for it was true: now the mannequin was no longer the grotesque, pieced-together creature, but a very feminine figure. It ceased to be an "it" and suddenly became a "she". Now that the immobile mannequin's skull was covered, and the hat properly in place, she looked rather ravishing with her painted leather lips and finely-shaped face. She even maintained her womanliness when dressed in the masculine high-collared cloak and hat. 'A bonnet would be more suitable, but I suppose it does make you look nice in a strange way,' mused Erik as he took her in. 'You could do with some arms and legs, too, but I can't see any in here...' She seemed to look at him in a more tender and thankful way with her empty eye sockets, now that they were behind the mask's eyeholes. Erik lifted his chin happily. 'No need to thank me...but I _will_ marry you, if you insist so much...' he told the mannequin gallantly, in response to her imaginary, delighted exclamation. 'I'm afraid I must go now...but I'll definitely visit you again!' With that, he bowed to her in a gentlemanly manner, then picked up his books and was gone from the room, back through the broken webs in the adjoining passage. Lying forgotten on the floor near the mannequin was the sack with the two holes in that stared up emptily and blankly in the darkness. The now-beautiful mannequin gazed back, dead until Erik came back to fill her with the life of his quaint, youthful games...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

'Oh!' Antoinette's hand flew to her mouth in shocked surprise, her eyes wide. 'Where on _earth_ did you get something like that, Erik?'

The handsome full mask turned its frown up to her. 'I found it!' the melodious voice replied cheerfully from beneath it, yellow eyes smiling through the angry eyeholes. 'Isn't it lovely?' Antoinette gave an inward sigh of exasperation. She was glad that the poor boy appeared happy, but she was suspicious of the origins of this fine mask. Hopefully nobody would remark its absence, from wherever he had taken it...three neat piles of books in the corner caught her eye, and she frowned. 'I suppose you found those books along with the mask?' she asked him. The child nodded, a hint of pride in the way he held his shoulders. Tucking behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose during practice, she bent down and plucked a book from one of the piles. It appeared to be a very old book, that nobody was sure to miss. The print was rather fine, and it filled each page in a tediously solid block. An ancient ribbon bookmark was placed carefully in the final quarter of the book, and she raised her eyebrows at the length of some of the words she could see. A mix of complicated and archaic sentences leapt out at her, baffling her completely. How could he be reading a book with such complex words? She glanced over the top of the book at the boy who sat still on the floor, watching her with vague, patient interest.

'Erik,' she said slowly with suspicion, 'Do you happen to _know_ what "obsequious" means? And...heavens...' - she squinted at the text as she spotted a ridiculous word - '...what about "_pulchritudinous_"? You can't possibly have read this much of such a difficult book -'

'Oh, really?' he suddenly shot back testily. 'And whyever couldn't I have read that much?' Antoinette frowned at him in surprise, taken aback. How could he be so arrogantly ignorant of his own capacities?

'Erik...' she said reasoningly, trying to calm him, 'Look at these words - even _I_ don't know what they mean. I suppose you don't have a clue what pulchridit...pulchritiditio..._pul-chri-tu-di-nous_ means! See, I can't even _pronounce_ it myself!'

She put down the book and was about to turn away when Erik voiced, very quietly: '_Beautiful_.' Antoinette stopped and looked at him. 'What did you say?' The fine black mask tilted up towards her defiantly. 'It means _beautiful_,' he explained simply, his tone rather mutinous. For a long, long while Antoinette stared at the child in awe, that turned to mild wariness. 'How did you know that?' she asked him, sensing his pride at her look of surprised stupefaction. 'Who taught you such long, strange words?'

Erik's thin chest seemed to swell beneath his ragged shirt. 'Me,' he said with a graceful shrug. The ballerina raised her eyebrows at him dubiously, as if prompting him to tell the truth. He met her unconvinced gaze with a scowl. 'Don't look at me like that. The word's context helps me find the meaning, if you must know. I'm not _stupid_.' His words were full of grumpy contempt.

'I didn't say that you were,' Antoinette said hurriedly, growing uneasy of the dangerous flashes in those yellow eyes of his. Already she could tell that he was not an ordinary child in more ways than one; he seemed to possess a brilliant mind, and his gaze was full of a shrewd, mature intelligence that was far beyond his nine or ten years of age. Noticing Erik become slightly more pacified, she delved into her pocket for the spare candles she had managed to bring. Seeing her put a hand in her pocket, Erik's eyes lit up with curiousity and he was once more a small boy, displaying the keen interest of a normal child as he strained to see what she had brought him. He took the candles gladly, but didn't comment on the absence of the small dinner she usually brought with her, as she had expected him to.

'Er...I'm afraid I could not bring you your bread tonight,' Antoinette told him, deciding to confess it even so. 'I am a dancer, after all, you see - somebody saw me putting the extra small loaves in my pockets, and now they watch me like hawks at the dinner table. I have to keep a strict diet as a ballerina, and it wouldn't do if people thought I was overeating...forgive me, Erik - I'll find a way to bring you food, I promise -'

But the boy seemed unperturbed at the prospect of going without a meal, half-starved though he appeared. 'Don't worry, Antoinette,' he said, in a civil enough manner. 'I'm not very hungry, anyway...it doesn't matter to me.'

'But...you've only had one meal today -'

'I have survived on less, and it's easy enough to go without food,' Erik replied, shrugging as he idly picked up a book. 'To tell the truth, I only eat when I need to...and I don't need to very often.'

Antoinette was shocked. 'You'll starve, Erik - or you'll become very ill!' she protested, but he did not answer, merely flicking through one of his books leisurely. Soon she abandoned hope, and decided to accept this as another odd facet of his complex personality. Perhaps less frequent meals to bring to him would relieve some of the pressure being put on her...

She found her gaze drawn to the imposing, regal frown of the adult mask that sat disconcertingly over the boy's haunting features. It was unnerving indeed, to hear his young but undeniably and irresistibly beautiful voice coming from behind such a manly face...but it was less unnerving than the blank, rough sack he had previously worn. What also amazed her was Erik's astounding eloquence of speech; only a week or so before, he had spoken like a child - perhaps out of shyness and fright - and now, his vocabulary was more or less equal to her own. This boy was almost disturbingly brilliant, and she feared for his future. Such a mind could not be kept behind a wall for long, and she shuddered to think what would happen when he finally made that inevitable step out of the shadows...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

A skeletal shape tiptoed across the brightly-lit balconies that were above the stage and just under the hanging scenery and pulleys. It peeped over the banisters at the glossy stage below, giving a childish giggle of excitement and joy. Erik ran lightly along the wooden boards, his feet making no sound as he gazed at all of the winching mechanisms hanging above him, marvelling at how many ropes he could see. A veritable spider's web, in fact, despite its apparent lack of order...!

He skipped around a corner, looking up and down alternately; there was so much to see out here, and it was so warm and lovely! He did not care that Antoinette had told him these places were unsafe - nobody was about, and he could go where he wished. Well, almost everywhere; only the world of the rafters high above his head was closed to him...but he was sure that one day he would overcome it, and find his grip strong enough to pull him all the way up that treacherous rope. Erik leant over the banister again, his black mask obscuring his look of glee completely. He very much liked the look of that shiny, magnificent stage, with its gleaming wood surface polished by thousands of ballet slippers and cleaners' cloths alike. It would be a grand thing indeed to stand on that stage, if only for a short while...Erik was sorely, sorely tempted to descend onto it, but he knew there could be people in the huge theatre hall and he would be discovered. He settled for gazing at it admiringly, wondering how it would feel to be on the stage before hundreds of people...although he disliked audiences from past experience, it was a nice thought that perhaps one day an audience would look at him in admiring awe instead of horror...

'...and then she said: "Oh really? I thought that was yours all along!"' a rather rough-sounding male voice soliloquized exuberantly, the raucous laughter that accompanied it growing nearer. Erik jumped, startled by the approaching company. At least two or three stagehands were approaching, by the sound of it...their voices had a greedy, almost obscene tone which reminded him forcibly of the gypsy who had kept his cage. They were travelling up the corridor that contained Erik's trapdoor, so there was no way he could run there to disappear back into the cellars. He began to panic slightly, making rapid calculations; they were approaching quickly, and would be around the corner in a matter of seconds - there was no time to make a suitable hiding place, and nowhere to run to. Erik's heart began to pound painfully behind his ribs as his yellow eyes darted from side to side, looking for an exit. Backing into a wall, he wondered whether he dared run the risk of being caught by running quickly to his trapdoor...

The stagehands were almost around the corner. Erik's thin chest was rising and falling rapidly beneath his ragged shirt, and he looked about wildly, body poised and tense. The only thing in his sight was that stupid rope, the rope he had spent so long vainly trying to climb up. If he had not managed to climb it then, he certainly would not be able to climb it now. Erik looked in a full, desperate circle, then, in a mad burst, ran at the rope.

It swayed precariously with his weight, and flaked beneath his frantic fingers. The inside of his mask grew hot and damp as he clamped his bony knees on the rope, urgently pulling, pulling -

He hardly dared to believe it at first, but soon he found that he was ascending with great swiftness up the rope, leaving the floorboards of the landing behind. Hands tightening, he climbed higher, higher...his arm hooked spasmodically around the rafter that he had suddenly reached, fingers curling around the edge. The stagehands were in the corridor, laughing amongst themselves, and if he fell now, it would be the end of him. In a feat of strength, Erik managed to swing a long, thin leg around the wooden beam and hold on tightly. There was a moment of breathless suspense as he hung more or less upside-down above the landings, but it passed when he courageously righted himself.

As the blood slowly began to leave his face, Erik heaved a great sigh of relief, straddling the beam with one leg on either side. He lifted his precious mask slightly to wipe away the sweat that had condensed around the inside of it and made his skin clammy, then looked down. The stagehands were checking and knotting ropes, completely oblivious of the presence of a little boy sitting high up astride a rafter, gazing at them. A wide, delirious smile stretched Erik's invisible lips as he raised his eyes to take in his surroundings. Around him, beams of wood criss-crossed one another, some wrapped with rope and many supporting large pieces of scenery. Up in this lofty retreat, airborne dusty gently drifted across the shafts of light that came in through the small, circular windows that nobody had cleaned since their fitting. The beams of wood, sanded to smoothness to avoid any possible rope-cutting splinters, glowed with a warm, gentle grainy brown hue. Shakily, not daring to get to his feet for fear of losing his balance, Erik shuffled awkwardly along the rafter, marvelling at the close warmth of the sloping sides of the roof that were almost within touching distance. After a short while, he arrived at an intersection of beams, and then was still, looking down with sheer awe. If he had been high above the stage before on the landing, it was nothing compared to his altitude now. Erik's eyes widened and he wobbled slightly, for a moment dizzily triumphant at the height he had acheived; the stage looked so far below! He began to shake like a leaf, knowing that death lay one unbalanced movement away. His body froze completely; nobody knew he was up here, and nobody could get him down - not even Antoinette. He couldn't see her climbing a rope all the way to the rafters to prise his stiff limbs from the beam he clung to. He was all alone...

Erik trembled, the strong, dark face of his mask even more out of place upon his face. He wanted to get down! He wanted to find some way to the safety of a floor...

Suddenly his body unfroze, and he gave a short, derisive laugh, taking his arms away from the beam, nudging the cool metal of a pulley as he did so. Why was he behaving so childishly all of a sudden? This was _fun_. The fact that nobody could come to get him up here was a welcome one - he was safe in this dangerous place! He glanced contemptuously down from his perch, then swallowed nervously. Well, safe so long as he kept his balance.

'I _belong_ in this place,' he told himself. 'I can learn to master everything about it!' Erik summoned up his courage, then shifted his weight, putting his feet onto the beam until he was crouching on the wood. Then, slowly, carefully, he stood straight, his mask lit by the light that came from beneath his feet as he looked down. At first the sight made him sway, but then he put his hands on his hips. 'Ha!' he said contemptuously. 'Can't scare _me_!'

Feeling amazingly bold and strong, Erik began to walk forwards along the beam. He did not stop walking until he had passed over the length of every single beam; once that was done, he gained the confidence to even _run_ over the beams, feeling lighter and freer with every step he took. His balance was progressing marvellously, and he laughed defiantly at the height more often as he skipped breezily along the rafters that nobody could climb up to even touch. Only when the light in the window began to dim did he decide to go back underground, seeing that the stagehands had gone for dinner and the landings were briefly deserted. With graceful confidence, Erik sat down on a beam, leant down and gripped the rope he had climbed up previously in his frantic bid for freedom. Taking care to keep a tight hold on it, he quickly descended the rope, and when his feet touched the ground he had not a single extra rope-burn on his already scabbed palms. Erik grinned and ran quickly away, through his trapdoor and out of sight.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Antoinette, on her customary afternoon visit to Erik's hiding place behind the chapel wall, was flicking through one of his ridiculously complicated books. Erik himself was pointedly ignoring her, absorbed in a book of his own with Pantin in his lap, sitting with his legs boyishly crossed. The monkey's black button eyes stared good-naturedly at the pages Erik read, as if it, too, was reading. Antoinette sighed inwardly. Giving up all hope of understanding a word of the book she had picked up, she put it down, and wondered what to say to him. She had visited him almost every day so far, and he was now well used to her. So well used, in fact, that he was becoming slightly withdrawn, wanting to be alone on more and more occasions. He was a disconcerting creature indeed...

'What are you reading?' Antoinette asked him with polite curiosity. He did not look up.

'I don't know the title, but it has some interesting pictures,' he remarked, still with his gaze fixed on the book. Antoinette raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. 'Pictures?' she repeated incredulously. 'Pictures in such a difficult book? Let me see...' He obliged to her request somewhat wearily, as if it were he the elder one of the pair, and she was the younger, demanding child. She decided to ignore this, and turned the pages of the book, keeping his place with a thumb, until she found an illustration. Her face wrinkled in disgust.

'Urgh,' she said, 'that's _horrible_!' She had fallen upon the infamous book of execution methods, and had been treated with a picture of the curly-haired, morose-looking man with a hole through his forehead. Her eyes filled with more and more horror as she turned more pages, sickened by the other cruel illustrations she found. Soon she could take no more, and said shrilly to the boy whose calm yellow eyes glinted through the mask: 'How can you read and look at such terrible things? You're far too young to be exposed to such ghastliness! You should still be reading fairy tales, at your age -'

His eyes narrowed slightly. 'I've seen _worse_ terrible things,' he told her simply with a voice too cold and composed to belong to a normal child. However, Antoinette refused to let him win. 'I'll be taking this back where it belongs,' she said, waving the offending book. Erik crossed his thin arms, his sharp elbows looking as if they were about to puncture straight through his ragged shirt.

'You don't know where it belongs!' he sneered triumphantly. 'Only _I_ know!' Antoinette glared at him, finding it easier to be stern with him when he acted as the child he truly was. After his immature words, some spell seemed to have broken and he appeared less ominous, and simply more like an insolent little boy.

'That changes nothing! I'm still taking it away,' she said stubbornly, her urge to protect his easily influenced young mind from such horrors prevailing. But then, Erik played his last card, taking out his final, worst weapon.

His yellow eyes fixed on hers, holding her with his unblinking golden gaze. She found she could not bring herself to look away, so powerful was the intensity of the stare coming from the frowning mask's eyeholes. Then his voice - oh, his sweet, melodious voice! - sounded out from behind the black mask, and submerged her beneath a wave of soft, mellifluous sound.

'_Give it back to me_,' murmured Erik. It was not a command he gave; no, not at all, it was a beautiful, gentle request. Antoinette felt her hands begin to move of their own will, slowly holding the book out to the little boy who held her so effortlessly captive with his voice. Briefly, a surge of coherent thought that wasn't dimmed by the wonderful voice rose in her mind, and she wondered: how on earth could such a normal mouth make a noise so enthralling? She reached out quickly with her other hand before he could move, pulling the mask from his face in a sharp movement, still unable to tear her gaze from his eyes but desperate to find out what trick enabled him to speak with such a voice. However, she found no trick, and he merely continued to stare at her with his golden, mesmerising eyes for a while longer, dreadful face pale in the lantern-light. Then, he spoke again - _but his lips did not move_!

'_Put it down_,' said Erik's voice, a little more firmly. His mouth was closed, but she had heard his voice as clearly as anything! Not only that - she heard him again, from a different place...his voice whispered the request again, from faraway down the corridor, outside the lantern's glow, then from a different place, and a different place again, his voice circling her disconcertingly. Antoinette's fingers trembled, her face white with fear. What mastery of his own voice...what strange, terrifying illusions he created! Erik's voice sounded suddenly and softly inside her own head, and she gave a strangled shriek, dropping the book and running from the hidden passageway and the sinister child that sat inside it, his bared face smiling with his victory as he retrieved the book.


	3. Chapter 3: The Lake

_**A/N:**__** What a cheeky little boy…tut, tut, Erik, biting the hand that feeds you! The going may be slow this week – I have a monstrous amount of homework from no less than four sadistic teachers, a very messy sketchbook to tidy, and a piece of Science coursework to write (groooooan). Those three reviews really made my day, after trudging home from two straight hours of badminton (which I lost)! Thank you very, very, VERY much to Kitten-nin, AuroraSky and Bearer of Christ for the encouragement! I've also drawn a couple of little illustrations, but I unfortunately don't have a homepage to actually put them on, so that's my bad. Oh, well, here is the third chappie…**_

_**Any chance of a review?**_

_**:3**_

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Owing to the way Erik had so mercilessly exercised his extraordinarily hypnotic vocal talents on Antoinette, the poor young ballerina did not dare to come back and visit him for a long while. This was the first time she had gotten a glimpse of Erik's darker aspects...and it was certainly not going to be her last. Even at his tender age he showed signs of an uncertain, almost _unbalanced_ mind, and also of a terrible shadow within - a shadow that, without careful attention, could seize dominance of him and make him grow into a monster of incomparable malice. This shadow was like an obscure pestilence; he had acquired it at an early age, and if it was not treated, it would infect him entirely, eventually killing him - but not before spreading to other people. The boy had only a very vague idea of right and wrong, and had no apparent sense of moral. At the moment he was in an unsteady but neutral position, as if he were balancing on a precarious see-saw between good and bad; with each surge of seemingly petty, childish trickery or mischief, he tipped further and further towards malevolence. If he was treated with less than basic civility, or - God forbid - scorn and disrespect, he would be shoved from that see-saw and into a wild freefall of rapidly culminating sin and wickedness. His brilliant mind, his mind so extravangant and advanced that it would be a disaster to be broken, was showing signs of weakness at the seams. Should he be forced to grow into a black-hearted, unstable adult, then the whole world would doubtlessly suffer too for its treatment of him...and for his cruel fate.

But if Erik's scars were tended to, on the inside as well as the outside, he would accomplish great things; he would rise to fame and earn respect - perhaps even friendship and love, too. He would use his imagination to help rather than to hurt once he understood that the world could offer him safety in exchange for his benevolence, and his voice would fill with admiration entire audiences that would flock to hear it. Perhaps even phonographs would be made of his unique vocal talents, and people the world over would be able to listen to the great man...but of course, all this could easily come crashing down if he was shunned once more because of his face - or even just his mask. People were just too curious. Even if he did manage to break free of the darkness which threatened to close its jaws around his juvenile heart, his face would still give rise to questions and rumours and gossip, and he would never be able to make many public appearances. Perhaps he was indeed destined for a life of solitude and anguish in this world where everybody is blind to all but the appearance of things...

Erik did not particularly mind Antoinette's absence. He decided that it was better like this, as she could not hound him about what he chose to read. Nobody could control him! He did _what he wished_! He was grateful the girl helped him, but if she continued to be so commanding of him, he would cease to tolerate her visits...which had now stopped for the time being. No matter; he did not need food - he could easily go for days without it. The only thing that mattered to him now was exploring the darker, more challenging lower reaches of the opera house. He wanted something new to test his courage on, to take one step further towards conquering every corner of the Opéra Populaire...and the best way to do so would be to thoroughly explore the deepest and darkest of cellars in the building...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Erik strode intrepidly down the damp corridors, lantern held high and reflecting the determined gleam in his golden eyes. Nevertheless, Pantin was kept close to his chest, especially in the passages that were more thickly hung with spider-webs. Erik had decided to bring his small stuffed friend for this adventure, as he hadn't quite had the heart to leave him behind - not when he was about to discover the furthest reaches of the Opéra's deepest cellars. Besides, he needed a little moral support, some form of comforting "protection" against anything that he believed to hide in the shadows...

Soon he had passed the abandoned store-room, and was proceeding along a corridor he had never gone down before. It was damper, cooler, and more moisture glistened on the walls and floor. Erik stumbled through countless icy puddles, determined to continue on his way. The more he walked, it seemed, the chillier the air became, as he was travelling deeper and deeper under the ground. However, he _wanted_ to see what lay at the very bottom of this passage - he _wanted_ to know where these corridors ended!

The steady murmur of wind prevailed through the stony corridors, along with the steady treading of Erik's feet on the ground. He began to feel slightly afraid now; he could be miles away from anyone, here under the ground, and the darkness kept at bay by the small circle of lantern-light seemed to close in around him like black wolves circling a campfire, waiting for the firelight to extinguish before leaping. Erik shivered, the boldness in him wavering for a moment, before returning with a vengeance. No, those black wolves would never get him, as all they would see was the mighty, proud mask that frowned commandingly at them. Erik's mouth tightened grimly. The ghastly face beneath would welcome the darkness, though...

Suddenly, the box of golden lantern light that encased Erik grew distorted to the right, illuminating the place where a second, parallel corridor joined the one he was travelling down. Erik stopped. _Two_ corridors? Where could the other one possibly lead? He was about to walk across to peer up the second passageway, when he abruptly realised that it had no floor. Erik stared in wonder as his lantern shone upon not stone but _water_. Water! The second corridor was actually a small, still canal of dark water that ran on for some way parallel to Erik's passage before disappearing under an archway out of sight. The glossy surface of the water reflected the light into scintillating shards that danced on the ceiling, making Erik smile. How long it had been since he had been granted access to water! All fears forgotten, he put down his lantern, propping Pantin up beside it to guard it, then crouched down at the canal's edge. After dipping a slender hand in, he confirmed that it was just as icy as it appeared. Nevertheless, water was water...glancing back at Pantin, Erik narrowed his eyes musingly.

'I think you should have the honours first,' he said, then picked up the cloth monkey, and was about to plunge it into the water for a bath when he saw the metal cymbals glint, bringing back an unbidden memory. He remembered heavy, torrential rain, pounding on the tent that sat over his cage...several rainy days, each just as bad as the last...the gypsies had cursed at the metal bars of his cage, saying they would rust...Snapping back to the present, Erik cocked his head to one side. He didn't want anything bad to happen to poor Pantin's fine cymbals if they got wet, so he took extra care not to submerge them when he rubbed at the grime that clung to the monkey's cloth body. Once this procedure was done and Pantin sat dripping on the ground, Erik relieved himself of his own clothing and mask before leaping joyfully into the water himself without a second thought.

The cold water made him give out a yelp that echoed through tunnels of unfathomable length, but he paddled about happily enough. Although the canal was fairly deep, he could easily reach the algae-slimed bottom with the very tips of his bony toes. However, with each movement he made, the water around him seemed to become colder, and soon his pale body was completely numb. But he could not recall the last time he had been granted permission to bathe, least of all in such a free way - he swam in a quick circle, limbs completely uncoordinated in his blissful abandon. After a few seconds of splashing about, he began to scrub at his stark white, grimy skin, that was still pale even in the golden light of the lantern that sat by the canal's edge. The dirt of several months began to slowly dislodge itself, leaving pinkish marks where he had scrubbed too enthusiastically. He had so hated being filthy, and it was wonderful indeed to be able to wash all of it off. Within minutes he had even managed to wash away the most tenaciously encrusted dirt from between his toes, and then he decided to tackle his hair. Giving a shudder that was nothing to do with the low temperature, Erik clamped a hand as firmly as possible over the gaping hole of his nose, and dipped his head under the water's surface. A split second later, though, he resurfaced, coughing and choking - it was horrible, the feeling that the water would seep through his fingers and into his nose to drown him! Shivering, he decided a safer option would be to not put his head under at all, merely his tangled black locks.

Once he had briskly washed his mass of dark waves, scrubbing hard at his scalp because of the lice and various other nasty creatures he suspected were living on it, he pulled himself quickly from the water, as his teeth were chattering and the scars on his body were beginning to sting. While he stood at the canal's edge, underclothes dripping, hair plastered to his head and skeletal limbs glistening in the candlelight, his eyes widened and he leant forwards in shock. He grabbed his lantern quickly, kneeling down on the ground and shining the light into the water.

A huge brown fish, bigger than any Erik had ever seen in his life, glided smoothly at the very bottom, wriggling its fins to get out of the light he had cast onto it. He gave a shudder - he had just been swimming very close to that fish, and maybe even on top of it! He could easily have stepped on the vile slimy thing - or it could even have bitten his toes...in fact, it was so big, he would not be surprised if it was capable of swallowing his entire leg up to the knee. Now trembling violently from the cold, teeth clicking together noisily, Erik shook the wet hair from his eyes and then suddenly found himself struck by a brilliant idea.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

If anybody ever entered the long-forgotten store-room on a regular basis - which, of course, they did not - one of the main differences they would have remarked upon when entering would have been the mysterious absence of the fine, black-and-gold gondola that formerly sat in a corner full of various odds and ends. The odds and ends that had previously been inside the gondola were now unceremoniously heaped on the ground, as if put there by an eager, distracted child, and the boat itself had disappeared completely. Even its pole was nowhere in sight...but the strange mannequin wearing the hat and cloak seemed to have an amused glint in her empty eye-sockets, as if she knew very well where they were.

It so happened that the gondola and its pole were not all that far away from the store room they had come from; in fact, they were floating quite happily in the dark canal just down the corridor. And who should be prowling up and down the canal's edge but a young boy in a black mask...

Erik stood nervously still for a moment, twisting the hem of his shirt, before gathering courage and finally stepping into the boat. For a moment it rocked sickeningly, and he shut his eyes against the thought of falling into the icy-cold water where the huge fish lived. But soon he managed to regain his balance, pleased to find that he was still dry and said fish was nowhere in sight. Placing his lantern and Pantin in the front of the boat, Erik picked up the long pole and began to hesitantly push himself forwards, testing out his capabilities.

As it turned out, he was excellent at steering but his force on the pole was utterly lamentable. He took a very long time indeed to find out that pushing too forcefully on the pole would send him skimming across the water and into the opposite wall. However, once he had found a good technique, he turned the boat and in a considerably more gentle way, pushed it back across the canal. He was about to turn the boat again to have another try at short-distance boating when he happened to find his gaze pulled towards the arching tunnel ahead. There was something about that darkness that attracted him, the grand gloom holding the promise of more hidden secrets...Erik adjusted his mask uncertainly, the wood of the pole still held in his hand. Surely it would not hurt if he went just a little way beneath that archway...? He had a lantern, and a tinder box, so no harm could ever come to him if he decided to explore a little further along this canal?

Boldly, he sent the gondola forwards, the golden glow of his candle dancing on the walls as they retracted beneath the arch.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

The darkness was all-consuming, shrouding everything in a blanket of impenetrable black, but even though it pressed in around the solitary glow of the lantern, Erik was fully aware of the narrow passage suddenly widening into a larger cavern. He punted on across the inky lake, the whites of his eyes luminous as he stared about, seeing nothing and yet feeling that this cavern held great promise within its murky depths. The lantern's shivering reflection on the water shimmered gently with the forward movement of the gondola; it cast little light on the surroundings, failing to disperse the thick shadows that hung heavy all about. However, from behind the mask Erik found himself not at all afraid that he would never find the entrance to the small canal he had just come through in this deep gloom - somehow he could _sense_ where everything was in this cavern. It was the particular note the subterranean wind whispered all around him that told him the exact size of the cavern, and the gentle changes in the air that indicated the precise location of the opening...Erik grinned to himself, knowing with dark pride that nobody but he could know such a thing. It would take a fully-grown adult _years_ to become accustomed to everything about this place, while Erik was finely attuned to each and every detail scarcely a minute after entering it. His extraordinary perceptiveness and his rapidly dwindling fear of the darkness proved to be much to his advantage...

As the cool, secret breezes stirred his curling locks, he began to realise that he was overcoming the largest challenge yet. During his first night, he had been absolutely terrified by the shadows and the malignant lack of light in the tunnels...and yet now, as he punted with more and more ease and grace across the smooth, black lake, he found the subterranean darkness welcoming, even hospitable, as if he had found the place where he truly belonged. Once he could preside over the darkness inside his own head, the gloom outside it became relatively harmless to him. After all, they were one and the same...the darkness in his head was really part of the world's shadows...

Abruptly, the pole hit against a slope. Erik gripped it more tightly, afraid he had hit something or was about to crash into a wall - momentarily disorientated, he poked about under the water with the pole in a feverish manner, the shadows closing in oppressively around him. However, before they could claim him, he regained control and his bearings, proceeding to curiously push the boat along over the water that grew increasingly shallow. Was this some sort of island? Or was it a bank on the far side of the lake? He would have to investigate...the gondola's prow scraped against stone, half-floating, half-resting on the underground shore. Without hesitation, Erik hopped out, the cold water splashing up about his ankles. He did not have far to paddle; the boat had already mounted a large part of the bank. Grabbing the lantern, he gazed about avidly...it seemed he had indeed reached a dry, relatively flat expanse of stone, not covered by water. He strode from end to end of this piece of ground; it was very large indeed, even with a few smaller adjoining "rooms". There was something about this area that filled him with glee: it was his! He had found it, all on his own, and he was the only one to know of it! Victorious and triumphant, Erik sang a few jubilant notes in celebration. The rapturous sound echoed marvellously around the stony chamber's walls, magnified tenfold by the hard rock and given a lovely timbre by the water. What beautiful acoustics! This cavern was an instrument in itself...Erik took of his mask with a flourish and sang again, louder and bolder, his young voice making the lake's still, inky surface ripple gently as it was answered by several distant echoes. The haunting, lilting tunes thrummed through the chamber, creating such a blissful symphony that Erik was completely and utterly taken by it. How wonderful indeed it was to have a place in which he could hum and sing as much as he wished without being heard! Lifting his lantern high, he proceeded to investigate every corner of the stone ground, deciding that this was indeed an ideal hiding place. If he had been given the chance to play at hide-and-seek as he had so often seen other children playing, he knew he would have been the master of the game. Nobody could hide like Erik - nobody in the world!

He carefully put on his mask, lamenting the loss of the cavern's irregular underground breeze on his face. He looked around and decided that he would take great care to remember this place, for he was sure it would be to great advantage to him in future...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

'E-Erik?'

Antoinette fought the tremble from her voice as entered the corridor behind the chapel wall. For the past few days the knowledge of this little boy's irresistible influential power had plagued her incessantly, but today she had decided to face up to her fears. It seemed so ridiculous, a grown-up girl like her to be so afraid of such a young child! Preposterous! And yet...there was something about Erik...something frightening about him that was not just his face...

So she had come to the conclusion that it was better if she remained his friend, at least. That way, he would not be running wild and causing havoc around the Opera house...she would try to take care of him once again.

Fortunately, Erik was in the small corridor, the lantern beside him looking rather battered now, and his cloth monkey lying on its back beside it. By the look of it, Erik had been on the verge of leaving, for he had just picked up his entire stack of books. Upon seeing her, he put them down again with reluctance, eyeing her warily. The mistrust in his yellow, glinting gaze was upsetting to behold, but Antoinette hid this and endeavoured to put him more at ease with a smile. This smile was met with an even deeper wariness and confusion, as Erik recoiled from her slowly. She frowned. 'What is it?' she asked him finally.

The hunching shoulders hunched even more as he narrowed his eyes cautiously. 'Are you going to beat me now?' he ventured quietly, with a dreadfully resigned tone. This was obviously something he had been waiting for grimly. Antoinette's mouth opened in shock.

'_Beat_ you?' she repeated. 'Whyever would I do such a thing?'

Erik looked at the ground, scuffing the stone with a toe.

'Because I controlled you,' he said rather matter-of-factly with a shrug. 'I put my voice inside your head and made you do what I wanted.' She decided to ignore the barely perceptible hint of pride that had crept into his words, choosing instead to console him.

'No, Erik, I will not beat you,' she told him firmly. 'You are forgiven, as long as you don't do it again.' He did not appear to hear her, simply too confused and mildly surprised at the fact that he was getting away with his crime. He nodded distractedly for a moment, then looked at her again.

'So then why have you come here?' he asked, curious.

Antoinette opened her mouth, unsure, then sighed. He wouldn't understand her guilt at leaving him alone and defenceless in the dark...he wouldn't understand her awful conscience at the thought of having left a poor young boy to fend for himself behind the walls of the Opera...so instead she told him: 'I just...wished to see if you were well.'

Erik's eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if he could not possibly imagine the point of such a thing. 'I am,' he replied flatly. There was something different about him, something she could not place...for a moment she regarded him, before realising. She raised her eyebrows, surprised. 'Erik...how did you get so clean?' she asked him, remarking the distinct silkiness of his long, messy raven-coloured hair and the extraordinary whiteness of his arms and hands.

'Water,' he said, with a simple shrug. 'There is lots of it down here, you know.'

'Water? You mean you went as deep as the underground lake?' Antoinette was shocked. She had heard tell of the lake far below the building, but had never thought even Erik would be brave enough to descend all that way in the darkness. Had he actually washed himself in that lake? She really had to admire his sheer nerve; any other child would have been gibbering with fear at the very prospect of venturing deep into the subterranean darkness.

'It's _my_ lake now,' he told her triumphantly. 'Because nobody ever goes that deep down, except for me. So it is mine now!' She was quite taken aback by this sudden upsurge of possessiveness, but did not comment upon it. After all, he was just a child, just a simple child...there was really nothing sinister at all about his boastful "ownership" of the lake...

Changing the subject abruptly, Antoinette remarked: 'You know, Erik, I think you could do with some new clothes. If you wear such torn and dirty garments, it won't matter how many baths you've taken; you'll still be not completely clean.'

'I know that,' he said, a hint of irony in his voice. His short answers were beginning to become quite off-putting.

'I think I could obtain some clothes for you,' she carried on helpfully. 'The seamstress here is a very nice woman, and rather busy, too...she has many clothes waiting to be cut apart for extra material, and I daresay there are some smaller items of clothing in those big piles. I could find you a nice green jacket, if you like, to replace that old one...or a pair of lovely blue breeches, if you prefer -'

Erik's arms crossed, right elbow poking from a hole in his shirt's tattered sleeve. 'Don't want green and blue,' he grumbled mutinously, all of a sudden sounding very much like a young child. Antoinette blinked, then raised her eyebrows at his insolence. 'Then what _do_ you want?' she asked unamused, her voice full of sarcasm.

'Black.' His tone was firm. 'Just black.' After a few seconds, his unyielding stance wavered a little. 'Or possibly white...that would be acceptable.'

Antoinette sighed, knowing nothing would come out of arguing with him. 'Oh, very well, then,' she said resignedly, 'A white shirt with black breeches. I suppose black is hard to stain, and the colour will last longest...'

Even though his face was covered, Antoinette could very clearly imagine the triumphant, winning smile that Erik wore now that he had succesfully bent her to his will once more.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

The cold waters of the lake parted obediently on either side of the long, dark gondola that glided along. This lake new its master now, and bowed down to him completely. Erik pushed the gondola forwards with long, flowing strokes, already elegant in each movement he made. His body moved as if to an unheard beat, the pole sinking into the water to push the boat along in a rhythmic, regular fashion that kept it sliding across the water. Today he had a passenger in his boat, a fine, metal-boned lady wearing a cloak and with a hat perched upon her masked head. Erik smiled at the mannequin he was ferrying; she would live down here, across the lake. No doubt it would make a nice change for her, from the cluttered confines of the store-room...

Once the boat had bumped gently into the slope, Erik picked her up as carefully as he could, keeping her hat in place and making sure the cloak did not hang in the water. He strode up the bank, his long, thin legs lifting before stepping like some odd wading-bird. When he reached a drier part of stone, he put her down, taking care that she was facing the boat with its small, glowing lantern. In the semi-darkness, Erik smiled at here. 'Isn't it nice here?' he said. 'This can be your new home. It's a bit cold but comfortable enough...nobody knows about it either. It's all mine - all of it!' His chest swelled with pride as the mannequin rained awed praise down upon him. 'Thank you,' he said courteously. 'Yes, I know I am very brave and clever. I am the cleverest in the world, you see!'

'You are indeed!' gushed the mannequin's high, soft voice. 'There is nobody who can do magic like you...'

Erik smiled bashfully behind the mask. 'I do my best,' he told her contentedly.

'It's true, Erik! You are brilliant! To think you came down here all by yourself in the dark - you're such a brave boy!' said the mannequin admiringly, her painted lips curled in gentle adoration while Erik smiled too.

'It _is_ very gloomy indeed...' he agreed. 'I went through so many spider-webs - as thick as this, they were! All spread like curtains around the passageway...'

'Yet you still went on?' her voice was full of marvel. Erik nodded.

'Yes, I still went on,' he confirmed. 'There were spiders in my hair and silk threads all over me, but I didn't stop! Then I found one on my hand, and it helped me think of a _magnificent_ illusion...and illusion that makes me move things without touching them at all!'

The mannequin was full of awe.

'Without touching them? Oh, please tell me!'

Erik frowned. 'But magic tricks are supposed to be known only by the magician,' he said sternly. However, the mannequin was adamant.

'Please, Erik - I don't like it when you keep secrets from me. You can tell me everything, you know you can, as I can, too...After all, a magician's accomplice knows the magic tricks, too,' she reasoned. Erik sighed in resignation.

'Oh, very well,' he said, then proceeded to explain to her in detail about his ingenious trick. She listened raptly, without interrupting, and then praised him on the cleverness of his idea. He took this praise happily, and then reluctantly told her that he had to leave.

'Already?' the mannequin said, sounding disappointed. 'But I'll be so terribly lonely down here by myself...'

'Don't worry, I'll be back soon,' he told her.

'Let me kiss you, then,' requested the mannequin, and he blushed blotchily, nevertheless rising on tiptoe so that the lips of her mask could brush the hard cheek of his own. He smiled up at her, then said: 'Have you seen my new clothes? I asked the girl for black because I remembered your nice cloak.'

'Black is very becoming on you, Erik,' the mannequin replied admiringly. 'Why, your breeches look almost the same shade as my cloak! Very nice...I'll happily give you my cloak, once you have grown tall enough for it.' Erik's yellow eyes brightened.

'Oh really? That is very kind,' he said. 'I shall make sure I'll grow very fast for it, then. Goodbye!' With that, he skipped off through the shadows to the small circle of light around his boat, the mannequin falling silent behind him, just as lifeless as she had always been.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Once the mannequin had been settled in her new home for a whole day, Erik found himself longing once more for the spectacular heights of the rafters. So, as soon as he knew the coast to be clear, he found his hidden trapdoor and clambered through it. Lightly, he ran across the brighter corridor, arriving soon at the rope. This time, he climbed with confidence, knowing that if he had done it on one occasion he could surely do it again. When finally he found himself sat on the lofty perch of the rafter, he reached into his shirt and pulled Pantin out, letting him sit on the wood in front of him. He had decided to allow his friend to join him on his adventures, now that he was certain no harm could befall him.

'Isn't it marvellous up here?' sighed Erik softly to Pantin, who appeared to be greatly enjoying himself at such a height. 'Look!' He got to his feet without hesitation and began to blithely skip along the crossing beams, the stage far below blurring under him as he moved. For a while more he danced across the rafters, revelling in this lofty freedom, and then the echo of voices made him stop.

'Oh!'

Erik immediately crouched to his knees to peer down at the stage below. He muffled a giggle of delight as he espied several stage-workers moving set pieces about, completely oblivious to the presence of a small boy far above them. He felt rather powerful in that moment, knowing he was safe and invisible all the way up here, looking down like an odd angel at the busy people below. Presently, a gentle tremor passed through the beam Erik was kneeling on, and his head turned sharply to the left. An elderly stagehand was beginning to work some pulleys, tugging on ropes and adjusting counterweights as he lowered a piece of scenery. Erik watched it go down delightedly, but then realised that he himself would not be able to descend until this rehearsal had finished...which could be a very, very long time. He crawled back across the rafter to where Pantin sat, and peered down at the old stagehand. Perhaps if he moved quickly, he would not be noticed...

A rope shifted close by, and when Erik turned to look at it, Pantin was sent tumbling from the rafter. Desperately, he tried to grab the small cloth creature as it fell, but it evaded his grasp, plummeting down. Erik's eyes were wide with horror as he watched his poor companion fall, his hands still reaching for it as if he could still grab hold of it. Luckily, though, Pantin landed not on the stage far below, but on the landing near the old stagehand...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Pascal Faudet turned stiffly as he heard something drop behind him with a muffled _clink_. He winced slightly; all this sharp turning was not very good for him...he knew he would be retiring soon, but he still needed what money he could earn working as a lowly stagehand...

His eyes were abruptly drawn not to a fallen rope, as he had thought, but to something small, soft and grey lying on the ground. Frowning in curious confusion, he came forwards, and bent to look at the thing. To his surprise, it was a child's toy - a cloth monkey holding a tiny pair of metallic cymbals. What was it doing here? And from where had it come? He raised his head, but the rafters were completely bare, as usual. Pascal scratched his balding head, then glanced down at the monkey again. Its black button eyes gleamed at him mysteriously, the benign stitched smile looking blank. Baffled, Pascal slowly bent to pick it up, when suddenly the odd thing spoke in a desperate, small voice, only just audible over the din of moving set pieces and loud conversations on the stage below. Pascal stared, dumbfounded. It was impossible and yet he had heard it cry, quite plainly: '_Don't touch me!_' There was a hint of aggression in the voice that had very clearly come from the stitched mouth, making him all the more unnerved.

'_Go away and leave me alone!_' demanded the cloth monkey, its warm button eyes and smiling, motionless face at odds with its petulant voice. Completely terrified now, and rather doubtful of his own sanity, Pascal hastened to obey, running from the corridor as fast as his legs could carry him. Once he had gone, a young, black-haired boy with a mask slid hurriedly down a rope from the rafters and picked the monkey up, gathering it close to his chest before hurrying off into a different corridor and out of sight.

Pascal Faudet left his job the following week, for medical reasons, as his ex-colleagues said. Talking cloth monkeys provide an excellent reason to retire in favour of a comfortable life away from the bustle of the Opera...even if his friends later agreed it was an odd but undeniably original excuse.


	4. Chapter 4: Like Stirring Anthills

**_A/N:_****_ It may interest you to know that the "eighteenth-century executions" book that Erik found in Chapter 2 is actually based on a real book of Mysterious Origin that I used as a random prop when doing a theatre thing in Beauville. I remember looking through that battered little green book and seeing a disturbing line-drawing of a curly-haired guy lying on the ground with his guts everywhere, above a faded, printed caption that said something along the lines of: "Ye Victimme Is Painefully Eviscerated". Pure macabre fun, that book, but I never saw it a second time...And for those who may have thought "wtf?" on the talking mannequin bit, it was Erik all along being a little ventriloquist and making her speak so he felt better. Anyway, thanks to Kitten-nin for being the...er..._only_ person to review (shuffles feet) - you really made my day!_**

**_Sorry about the delay, I had a terrible case of writer's block that was only remedied by watching the PotO movie about three or four times. Well, here is chapter 4:_**

**--------------------------------------------------------**

A rather rotund gentleman with a large moustache and even larger belly made his ponderous way down the street. He frowned speculatively at his surroundings, hands clasped behind his back as he enjoyed the brisk morning air. He was dressed richly, with a pair of breeches practically straining at the seams and a fine waistcoat, from which there hung a gold watch-chain. The man ambled with eager aimlessness, like a person who thinks a brief walk in the mornings would invariably keep the body healthy and prevent any life-shortening illness while other less active people stayed indoors. He stomped his way down the crowded pavement, where assorted workers, urchins and mothers with children hastily dived out of the way to avoid being trampled upon. His bulk was given a wide berth; not only because of him taking up half the pavement anyway, but because he was visibly a rich man and trouble would come if he was jostled in any way. By the look of it, he was a banker who strongly believed that a breath of fresh air now and then would work off a large four-course meal, _aperitif_ and rich cheese included. He even smiled at some of the tiny children riding in their perambulators, as if showing them that if they followed his example and lifestyle, they would be much better off. Of course, some of the infants were rather alarmed by his massive size and intimidated by the moustache, and he left a chorus of horrified wails in his wake However, in his vigorous optimism, he failed to notice this, and continued on his way cheerfully while already haggard mothers shushed and scolded. Upon passing a young woman, he raised his hat courteously, earning a polite smile from her before he rounded the corner and diappeared from view. Once he was out of sight, the woman's mouth tightened briefly, as if wondering who that fat old git thought he was...she adjusted her modest bonnet, and almost ran into a small paperboy, whose upset cry made her quickly apologise and hurry off. The paperboy pouted, staring after her, before waving his newspapers about. For several minutes he was wilfully ignored in the bustle, until he mutinously thrust a copy of _L'Epoque_ into the face of a thin, bearded man who spluttered in indignation and proceeded to loudly denounce the child. The boy replied by sticking out his tongue and running swiftly away with his bag of newspapers to another street until it was safe to return. The bearded man spluttered some more, before marching off in as dignified a manner as possible, unfortunately failing to remark that his hairpiece was askew. Several small, grubby-faced urchins took the liberty of informing him of this, and were consequently chased after by the infuriated man. Their laughs and screams of mirth as they were pursued by the much less agile man rose up to the rooftops of the Opéra Populaire, where, unseen by all, another very different boy sat peering down at all the goings-on in the street below. He was bony and thin, wearing second-hand clothes that were negligently untucked and creased, and his tousled black hair curled slightly at the ends, ruffled by the wind. But what was most remarkable about him was the black mask he wore on his face, the mask that covered features so ghastly and frightening that he could easily have been mistaken for a month-old corpse - or, at this height, a rather fearsome pale gargoyle. Luckily, nobody chanced to look up, as the Opéra Populaire was something most people passed every day, and so the little face peeping over the side of the roof went completely unnoticed.

Erik's golden eyes shone with glee as he stared down at the civilisation spread below him. It was a wonderful feeling, being so dizzyingly high up and watching all of these goings-on. The way people interacted with one another fascinated the masked boy on the roof of the Opera house; he avidly watched each person passing, remarking every detail about how others reacted to them, how they talked and interacted with the people they met...He felt even more apart from them than ever; he could only watch this incredibly social and complex race communicate with each other and go about their daily business, for he knew he would never be counted as one of them. He did not belong amongst their numbers - he had long figured that out. He was distanced from them; as distanced as a boy watching an anthill, knowing he could never hope to become a part of that busy, amical community nor share their sense of mutuality. However, although a boy cannot become part of an anthill, he can always poke it to stir it up a little...

Eyes narrowing as a mischievous smile curved his lips, Erik peered closer at the people passing below. His searching gaze found a matronly, rather intimidating middle-aged woman who was walking - or rather, trotting in ridiculously tiny shoes - along the pavement, a folded parasol clutched in a kid-gloved hand. Erik's gaze locked on another person, directly behind her, this time a pompous man with a fussy little moustache and an unpleasant sneering curl to his lip. He appeared to be the type of offensively rich man who takes great pleasure in flaunting his hoarded gold, namely by wearing the most expensive clothes he could manage. Smile curling wider, Erik concentrated on the man, thinking fast. Now, how would such a man speak? Nasal, decided Erik, with emphasis on the "t"s and a moderately pitched voice, words tailing off into a self-proud little purr. Yes, yes...

Taking a breath, Erik focused all of his attention on the man, and threw his voice further than he had ever thrown it before. Luckily, thanks to the time he had taken to perfect this skill, he managed to make his voice come from the exact location of the man's mouth.

A rush of rather colourful language issued from the stuck-up man below, making the people walking past him stop and stare, muttering in shock at such rude comments. Up above, Erik stifled a laugh; the various phrases he had heard the gypsies use on wagons stuck in muddy ditches and on horses that would not co-operate had proven to be quite useful. They were certainly effective, too: the matronly woman turned around at once and glowered dangerously at the man, who was looking absolutely horrified at the words he had heard himself say but had most definitely not thought.

'_C'est bien à _moi _que vous parlez, monsieur_? Are you indeed talking to _me_?' she intoned dangerously, offense vibrating in every syllable. Erik gave out a small chuckle, hearing each word and delighting in the responses created. People had stopped to stare at this exchange; they were certainly not going to be disappointed...

After seeing the man - who now looked much more modest - shake his head frantically and exclaim that it was not he who had spoken, and most certainly not to her, the woman gave a loud 'Hmmph!' and turned away. However, she had not walked two steps when Erik's vocal chords thrummed again and the man said something even _more_ outrageous and insulting.

Mouth open in sheer outrage, the woman spun around on her spindly-heeled shoes and, to the delight of Erik and the amusement of the crowd watching, picked up her parasol and proceeded to soundly beat the poor man about the head.

'_Mais - ce n'était pas moi, je vous le jure, madame, je vous le _jure' he cried, cringing away from the blows as the people watching laughed loudly. 'It wasn't me, I promise you, madame, I _promise_ you!' Erik himself was clutching his sides and shaking with mirth as the man's vain protestations turned to swearing of his own, his pained yells echoing all the way up to the Opera's rooftops. Oh, how fun it was to poke at an anthill and watch the little creatures all swarm about in panic and confusion! Poor, simple-minded little things, thought Erik, lifting his mask slightly to wipe away tears of laughter. Even though it was not a very kind thing to do, it offerred great amusement...and besides, _they_ gave no kindness to _him_, so why should _he_ be kind in repayment of their cruelty? For simple-minded creatures, they still had a way of being terribly hurtful to Erik, and he did not like it. Sometimes he wished to give up his great mind and talents to be simple-minded like them, and be a part of their intricate, safe societies. However, he always shook thoughts like these from his head; he was _gifted_, as somebody had once told him long, long ago, and he should be glad, not resentful, that he was above their level of petty idiocy. He had not been given many gifts during his lifetime, so the ones he already had should be cherished and nurtured until they grew to such a greatness that all the anthills in the world would tremble with his power...

Shaking himself from this daydream, Erik got to his feet and looked back down at the road below. The fight had long finished, and people were walking by as usual. Nothing interesting...perhaps there was more to do elsewhere? As swift as a bird, Erik turned and skipped off, away along the rooftops.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

'Oh, Erik! Welcome back - I had missed you _so_, so much!'

Erik smiled and jumped from his boat, his face flushed and eager behind the mask. 'And I you,' he confessed to the mannequin who stood as still as ever, waiting on the secret bank by the underground lake. After walking a few steps, looking speculatively around the cavern, he said musingly: 'You know - I think this place would make a rather nice house. What do you think?'

'That's a splendid idea!' replied the mannequin, staring blankly out across the lake. 'Nobody will ever find you here - they're far too afraid of the big, dark lake.'

'Yes,' said Erik quietly, a small smile beginning to creep over his lips. 'Yes...'

Darkness; it now meant no more to Erik than sunlight. He had realised, very quickly, that there was nothing to be afraid of from it...now it could not scare him at all. He had successfully conquered the childish fear, and come to realise that darkness was a _good_ thing.

With the help of the shadows, he could run unseen through gloomy corridors, fly across platforms in full view of stagehands and yet remain invisible. Cloaked in blackness, there was nowhere he could not go, nothing he could not do...and that included watching an opera under the very noses of a hundred people...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

His hands were shaking. This challenge was bigger than any he had ever dared to take. If he was caught...Erik shivered, but with a delirious smile on his masked face. That was just part of the fun; the greater the risk, the more amusing the challenge became! After all, that was what the game was all about...

He paced up and down the rafter, out of sight, looking downwards for a suitable rope...spotting one, he grabbed hold of it and then wrapped his legs firmly around it. Making sure the darkness obscured him completely, he slid down the rope that dangled a long way over the stage. This rope did not reach the ground, far from it - but he did not _need_ to reach the ground, only to _see_...

Erik hissed in anger as he found the rope he was clinging to was not even long enough for that. Swaying over the void, he looked about. Perhaps if he tied the rope strongly around one ankle, and let himself hang upside-down to take a peep...? He was an agile boy, and getting back up would not be a problem, but as soon as the thought of tying knots in a rope crossed him, he felt his stomach lurch with the memories. No...no, he would tie nothing. The one knot he currently knew was one he did not want to tie ever again. He trembled for a moment, then looked about himself once more. There were more ropes nearby - ropes longer than the one he held on to. If he could only grab hold of one -

Holding his breath, he reached out to the nearest rope. It seemed so _near_, yet so far...veins throbbing, he strained and strained, the drop gaping underneath him as his long, white fingers stretched, only just brushing...With a sudden burst of courage, he let go of the rope he held to frantically grasp at the second one, only supported by the strength of his bony knees. For a second he was suspended, slipping, but then his palms closed over the second rope, and he clung onto it tightly, eyes closed and body trembling. A short while passed as he just clung, shaking, and then he suddenly looked up, eyes bright with triumph and fear completely gone. With new-found boldness, he swiftly descended the rope, stopping just within sight of the audience. Erik gazed out; he was hidden by the top of the stage, but he could see all the seat placements, and all of Paris's elite being herded in. Wonderful...

But the seats were all filled. He could not possibly watch the opera from here; there would be set pieces going up and down, stagehands everywhere - _and_ it would spoil the show somewhat. No, he wanted to see it from where it was _meant_ to be seen: from a place in the audience. His keen yellow eyes scanned the balconies and alcoves; there were less people in them, but there was just enough for him to know for certain that he would be discovered if he ever hid behind them.

His eyes flickered again, this time towards the boxes; yes, there again more people. In some there was as little as only one nobleman, but there was still the certainty of being caught -

Suddenly Erik's gaze fixed on one of the boxes. It was upholstered in red velvet like the others, but _it was empty_. Face lighting up with glee, he took note of the position of the box, then lightly climbed back up the rope, making the end dance in a snake-like fashion that thankfully nobody saw.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

The box, according to the brass number attached to the door, was Box Five. It was unusual for such a well-placed box to be empty, but then again, all boxes were not _always_ filled, and not many nobles who required boxes had come to attend the opera showing that night. Swallowed by shadows lurking between the oil-lamps on the walls, Erik dodged ushers leading latecomers to their seats and closed his skeletal hand around the doorknob. It was smooth and polished, and the door opened silently when pushed. Slipping inside with a stifled giggle, Erik closed the door behind him and crept towards the seats. He could only wonder at the luxury he saw; this was one of the boxes that only the richest could afford. Sinking to his knees, he touched the thick carpet with cold hands, wondering at its texture, before admiring the seats. They, too, were red, and pleasantly velvety to the touch. Making sure nobody from the audience or in neighbouring boxes could see him, he ran a white hand over the the carved and polished edge of the box, marvelling at the pure richness of it all. To think he had been entombed in a cold, damp cellar when there was such luxuriant comfort in this place...!

His momentary mutiny against the uncaring Antoinette was forgotten as the lights were dimmed and the opening strains of an overture began. Erik sank into the velvet chair, not taking his eyes off the orchestra pit as he listened with great concentration. Music began to fill his ears, and he lost focus on the parting curtains, so enthralled by the glorious sound he was. Throughout each and every scene, the only thing Erik saw and heard was the movements of the violinists' bows, the gesticulation of the conductor, the range of different notes all in harmony together. The applause and occasional murmurs of the audience became a faded blur, as Erik intensely watched the music being played. The acting onstage didn't matter to him either - he didn't need to watch, it was all being told in the music!

While he tried with feverish eyes to watch every musician at once, a memory began to come back to him...a memory from his past, the past he was so anxious to forget...Taken by the recollection, Erik's eyes suddenly closed, and he could see it again - the dark church, lit only by the moonlight that cast a patterned glow on cold stone, the polished pews empty and silent...tall, metal pipes, shining brightly in the gloom that bled everything of colour - tall pipes that thrummed and shrilled at every touch of his young fingers on the keyboard down below...the feeling of security, being alone in this deserted place of worship without having worrying about his mother or a villager catching him because _all that mattered there and then was the music_. The music enfolding him safely, wrapping him completely until the world and its trivial people disappeared around him..._his_ music, the music that _he_ wanted to hear, that _he_ was playing - the music that was filling the entire church with its grand, haunting echo!

The precious happy memory faded, replaced with a terrible sensation of being watched. Erik's eyes opened...and he looked straight into the infuriated gaze of Antoinette Durand.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

There she was, in costume on the stage, twirling and turning with the other ballet girls. The only thing that set her apart from the others was her white face and her tight lips, as well as the way she kept throwing furious, appalled glances at Box Five. If Erik had been a normal child, he would have trembled, but as he was not, he made do with looking back at the orchestra and deciding he was bound to get a beating sometime.

When the opera finally ended, he flew from the box, weaving his way through shadows before the audience began to crowd the corridors. Despite the punishment that inevitably loomed ahead, Erik was happy, taken by the glory of the spectacle as he ran merrily off to the chapel, knowing that it was not every day a child like him got a chance to see an opera...

Back in the _grande salle_, a rich man with a pair of luxuriant muttonchops said to his company: 'I say, does any of you know who that strange little gentleman was, sitting in Box Five?'

'He looked a bit like the Baron de Mercégeois from the side, but I couldn't really tell in the dark...' said a woman.

'The Baron? Really? You think so?'

'Well, I don't know -'

The man with the muttonchops frowned. 'Awfully pale and thin, though, wasn't he?

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Antoinette strode angrily through the corridors. It had taken her hours to get free from the post-production confusion and get changed, and she knew Erik must have fled as far away from her as possible during that time. However, she was determined to find him, and had brought a lantern for that inevitable tramping through endless dark passageways in search of him. She was unafraid of the secret, unknown and forgotten corridors, because her anger and outrage was so great that she was fully ready to brave the impenetrable blackness lurking in the stone maze that led so deep underground.

Once she had entered the chapel, she fiercely swung back the hidden doorway, chin high and ready to face the long, dark -

Antoinette looked down at what was lying on the floor. A sorry bag of bones was curled up, black locks rumpled, arms holding the back of the head while covering the face. For a second she was satisfied, but then she realised with growing irritation that he was not, as she had first thought, cowering on the ground in a shivering ball with his arms over his face because of fear of her wrath.

He was _sleeping_. Actually _sleeping_, with his chest rising and falling evenly, his head covered by his arms in a position that appeared to be quite natural to him. He looked oddly peaceful, but this did not serve in any way to quell her outrage. He knew he was in trouble, and yet here he was, fast asleep!

'Erik.' No reply. '_Erik_.'

The skeletal, sharp limbs stirred slightly and the ball unfolded into a considerably longer young boy who looked up at her blearily. 'Oh,' he said, with an infuriating lack of emotion. 'I'm sorry. I waited for a while, but then I thought you weren't coming, so I fell asleep.' Antoinette crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

'I don't _care_!' she said slowly and venemously, full to the brim with rage. 'I _told_ you to make sure you weren't seen, and yet you have the utter _nerve_ to _watch a performance from an actual box_! You could have been sighted - and I'm sure many people _did_ see you, too!'

Her words seemed to have no effect upon him whatsoever; Erik merely sat there, legs neatly folded, his yellow eyes glazed as they glittered gently behind his mask, the whites very pale against the black material. He did not appear to be seeing her at all.

'Erik. Are you even _listening_ to me?' she asked him in outrage.

'No,' he said with calm honesty, shaking his head. Antoinette blinked at him, completely taken aback. His head tilted to the side slightly. 'I'm listening to the music,' he said cryptically, by way of explanation. She frowned, listening as hard as she could, looking around in confusion.

'What are you talking about? I can't hear any -'

'The music in my _head_,' Erik told her, as if she was too simple to even guess such a natural thing. His eyes unfocused again, and Antoinette looked at him warily. She knew all children had their odd moments and said odd things, but this...there was something strangely sinister about this young child who sat on the floor listening to music that apparently was only in his own head. 'I would very much like to play it...' he murmured, and then began to hum the tune that he was "hearing". Antoinette could only stand and listen in complete unabashed awe. The sound this boy produced from his vocal chords alone was phenomenal - it had such a sweet beauty, even when giving something as basic as a hum. To her surprise, she found she recognised the tune - it was vaguely like the piece played by the orchestra that night during the production, but it was not the exact melody. No, it was different, changed: not through forgotten notes or lack of memory, but through some ingenious creative talent that turned the whole tune upside-down and gave it a melancholy, haunting air. She had never heard anything like it; Erik's remarkably quickly put-together variation was so brilliant and striking that it could almost have been an opera piece in itself. And this had only just come from his mind - it had only been brewing for a few hours, and she was sure he had not even _touched_ a musical instrument during that time...and yet he had composed this haunting tune that was every bit as good as the melody it was taken from itself.

Abruptly, the spell of his voice was broken as he stopped and stood up, picking up his small, battered lantern. 'There is much I must do,' he told her curtly. 'I have to go now. Goodnight.'

With that, he was gone, running off down the passage where his swinging lantern's golden glow faded gradually then disappeared around a corner, leaving Antoinette very much bemused.


	5. Chapter 5: The Lair

_**A/N:**__** Sorry about the slow updating, my brain is broken from the speech I had to write and the eight-page scientific study of melatonin I was forced to produce while keeping my terror of a younger brother out of my room...Thank you to Freedom Tide (yay! A new reviewer! Oh dear, if he's getting cute then I must make him do something crazy ;D) and Bearer of Christ (In a way, that was an important point, but there is going to be another sighting that will be more significant) for indulging me wiv their lovely reviews. Now, on to Chapter 5...**_

**--------------------------------------------------------**

That was the last Antoinette saw of him for a long, long while. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. As time went by she found herself thinking more of her ballet than the strange young boy...but she still felt an awful sense of guilt, knowing that he was somewhere hidden in the depths of the Opera all alone. She could easily have followed the passage down behind the chapel walls, but the darkness was so thick, the corridors so maze-like, that she did not have the courage to seek Erik out. If he hadn't come to see her, then surely that meant that he did not need her as much? She did not know what he did to find food for himself, but assumed that he got by. After all, he knew where to find her, so if he needed her, he would have come...

Two months after Antoinette last saw him, she began to have worries; what if he had hurt himself, and was lying somewhere, immobilised and vulnerable? The thought of his little pale body lost in darkness made her shudder, but she knew from experience that Erik was not the type of child who would just sit there passively. No, he was a hardy creature, who had survived on his own for a long time...

When months began to turn to years, Antoinette concluded that Erik had run away. Her visits to the always-empty chapel - which had become less and less frequent - had not given her a glimpse of him, nor had she ever sighted him anywhere in the Opera. He seemed to have completely disappeared...it was quite likely that he had become bored and simply slipped away into the streets of Paris to lose himself forever in the labyrinth of alleyways. Soon she thought about him less and less, until she had all but forgotten him. On some nights, though, when she lay in the dormitories almost asleep, she would wonder about him and what had become of him. Could it be that he was still hiding in the Opéra Populaire? How old would he be by now? Twelve? Thirteen? Fourteen? His age had been impossible to tell, even from what she remembered of him. How was he faring?

And then, one day, she did meet him, in the very place she had left him, all that time ago...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

It had become a sort of tradition, in a way; at least once a month she would visit the chapel, not really expecting to find Erik...but there was always a _chance_, always a tiny smidgeon of a possibility that he would appear...Of course, she knew that he had probably gone, and yet she still went back to the chapel.

On one such day, she failed to check behind the wall as she always did, gazing out of the tiny, stained-glass window instead. All she could think about for the moment was the charming young man who had been so wonderfully polite to her, and had been giving her his attentions all week. Raymond Giry, his name was...fine youth indeed, even if he did not have much family...

Antoinette looked out of the window, eyes glazed. She had only just turned nineteen, and he had given her a lovely little bracelet for her birthday. He was so kind, so respectable, not like the other young men she knew. She turned to glance at the door. Perhaps she should go, and see if he was where he usually waited for her...yes, she should look for Raymond, instead of waiting for the eldritch child who had not been seen for -

'_Ah! Antoinette? I thought you might be here_,' said a strange voice, intoning all around her. She jumped, gasping sharply. For a second she thought it was Raymond, or some other young man, but then she realised that the room was completely empty. She frowned. The voice had sounded almost...like Erik's. It sounded like Erik's, but at the same time..._not_ like Erik's. It was not the high voice of a child, but a rather pleasant, vibrant voice that had the gentle deepness of a young man's. Each syllable was perfectly spoken and articulated, with no youthful slurring.

'Who's there?' Antoinette asked, for she could not see anybody and dared not open the secret passageway in case whoever was watching found out about it.

A disconcerting, highly familiar giggle sounded in the chapel, and the voice said: '_A ghost_.'

Antoinette narrowed her eyes. 'That does not amuse me,' she told the voice, and was replied by a sigh.

'_Why, it is Erik, of course._ Look, here I am.'

The hidden door opened, and a very odd and unfamiliar boy stepped through. The first thing Antoinette remarked about him was his startling height - he was much taller than she was, with very long, thin legs. His skin was an unhealthy shade of grey-white, his skeletal, bony body covered completely by the most magnificent black cloak she had ever seen. His hands, with fingers of an inhuman length and deftness, were on his hips, pale against the dark material of his trousers. On his feet were black boots, contrasting with his pale shirt, and on his face he wore a scowling white mask that only showed his eyes and mouth. These eyes, of a _very_ familiar yellow colour, were looking straight at her, the thin-lipped mouth in a vague half-smile, as if he was assessing her.

'Erik?' Her eyebrows were raised, hardly able to believe it. He had grown like a weed since she had left him, and he was very different indeed to the child she had last seen - in fact, he seemed to be no longer a child, but hovering in the delicate stage between boyhood and manhood. His chin was more pronounced, his voice velvety and smooth - and all the more hypnotic - and he held himself with distinct pride. He was rather impressive, standing in the darkening chapel with the folds of the fine black cloak cascading down from his broadened shoulders. But still he was rather thin - the years had not filled him out or made his body lose any of its emaciated boniness. On the contrary; he appeared just as gaunt as ever.

His hair was another thing that had changed; it had lost its juvenile curls, and become longer and straighter. At present, it was neatly tied back with a black bow, making him appear older still. However, his sudden ageing was not what shocked Antoinette the most...it was the sight of the rather winning grin playing across his surprisingly well-shaped lips. His mouth and chin appeared as normal as any other boy's - even quite nice-looking, in fact, though a little bloodless...

'Erik...take off your mask,' she requested quietly, still staring at him in an almost wary manner. His wide smile faltered, and his mouth grew serious again. A spidery hand rose hesitantly, and then the mildly scarred fingers tugged away the mask, lowering it slowly.

A dead face stared back at Antoinette, as pale as snow and with skin so papery and thin it looked ready to split at any moment. Yes - the gaping hole was still there, where the nose was missing...the faint, pale blue veins visible at his temples...But even his ghastly face had a few differences, as one would expect in the face of an almost-grown boy. His painfully pronounced high cheekbones seemed to be even sharper, and his cheeks were more hollow, having lost what little roundness they had possessed in his childhood. His entire face, in fact, seemed longer, more mature...

His eyelids flickered, and Antoinette realised he was now staring at the ground in shame from her scrutiny. Feeling a stab of guilt, she started: 'Erik -'

He shook his head, cutting her off. 'You thought my face would have changed, too, did you not?' he murmured softly, sounding disturbingly disappointed with himself. Antoinette opened her mouth to protest, but when he fixed his golden eyes on her, she knew that he had guessed everything. She had forgotten how intelligent the boy was...she sighed.

'I...entertained the _hope_ - that it would have healed a little with age, yes,' she said carefully, daring not to tell him that for a wild second she had thought the rest of his face was as well-shaped as his mouth and chin had appeared.

'But you were wrong, weren't you,' Erik said in self-disgust. 'Look: I am just as hideous as before...' He ran a hand over his face, his dark brows coming together in rage and disgust as his fingers passed over his missing nose. 'Even more hideous, in fact! Not even age can rid me of this horror - it will never, ever heal!' Then, just as suddenly as his rage had appeared, it was extinguished, and he sank down to the ground in dejection. 'But everything is changing - I do not think in the same way any more...and at night I incessantly dream of terrible things...'

Antoinette hovered anxiously near him, unsure how to comfort him in this state of complete despondency. Luckily, though, he seemed to need no comforting; in a short while he had pulled himself together, heaving a huge sigh before looking up at her with an expression akin to mild embarrassment.

'Forgive me,' he muttered, trying to regain his dignity as much as possible. Unexpectedly, his eyes brightened in a disconcertingly rapid change of mood. 'Would you care to see my lair?' Antoinette blinked in shock.

'Your _lair_?'

Erik blinked back, brow furrowing as if he couldn't think _why_ it surprised her to learn that he lived like an animal. 'Why, yes,' he said, looking deceptively innocent. 'I cannot see any reason for me not to have a proper domicile. It's a sort of a home - a retreat, if you will.' Antoinette stared at him dumbly for a while before she could speak again.

'You mean to say that you have been working on a _house_ for all this time?'

'It's rather modest. Will you see it?' he asked beseechingly, anxious to show off his handiwork. She dithered. It couldn't hurt, could it? Even though she had not seen this boy for a long, long time and he had grown to an intimidating height, there was nothing but a juvenile pride in his eyes, like a child's when wanting to show a new toy.

'Very well,' Antoinette said resignedly, following him reluctantly through the door and into the gloom beyond.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Although she had neglected to inquire upon the precise location of Erik's "lair", Antoinette rightly guessed that it was somewhere deep in the cellars. Was it in a neglected storage-room, perhaps? A locked storage-room with the contents rearranged to make a passable, childish living-place? No, she knew it would definitely not be something as unimaginitive. Erik was a creative boy, it was apparent in every aspect of him, from his mellifluous voice to the intelligence sparkling in his disconcerting eyes. But this creativity was quite frightening, more often than not. Antoinette began imagining ever more fearsome "lairs" until she had to take her mind off it by talking to him. She glanced at him as he swept along beside her, as silent and fluid as a shadow, only the shining lantern in his hand telling her that he was there at all. In his other hand he held his mask, with its ties trailing aimlessly as he walked. The exposed horror of his face was made no less terrifying in the brightness of the light, but the sharp bones and translucent skin were somehow...softened by the semi-darkness and the flicker of the candle. So the shadows really are kinder to him than daylight, thought Antoinette grimly. Wanting to break the awful silence that seemed so natural to him, she asked curiously: 'How old are you, exactly, Erik?'

The dream-like state he seemed to have been in evaporated at the sound of her voice, and he turned to face her, looking taken aback for a second - almost as if he had completely forgotten that he had company. This expression quickly gave way to a look that was completely distorted by his hideous face, but may well have been a look of thoughtfulness. 'Exactly?' he repeated nervously. 'I have no idea exactly. I lost count a long time ago; it didn't matter to anybody else, so I decided to stop remembering.'

Feeling a surge of pity for him, Antoinette persevered. 'When is your birthday, then?' This only seemed to serve to make him even more uncomfortable.

'I don't know,' he whispered after a long, painful pause. There was anger and bitterness in his eyes, but not directed at Antoinette. It was wholly directed at himself, for being thrown by such a simple question. He seemed to detest being without an answer to something so simple.

Antoinette wisely decided to leave it at that. She knew he was quite fragile, despite his aggressiveness and rapid changes of mood. Any extra strain would invariably have terrible effect on him, and she did not want to be the one to finally unhinge that brilliant mind. However, she knew that life would serve more pain to him; he was a growing boy, and he would soon fully realise how lacking he was...the world would be even less kind to the adult Erik than to the child he still was.

Abruptly, he looked thoughtful and said, quite unexpectedly: 'I think I am fourteen. Or fifteen. I don't really know...' Antoinette nodded slowly. So he must have been older than he appeared, when she had brought him here all that time ago...

'My boat is over here,' he said quietly.

'Your boat? You mean you live across the lake?'

'Indeed.'

Antoinette allowed herself to be herded into the intricately carved gondola, shuddering as it rocked on the water. She had never had very much experience with boats, and the water looked so cold and deep...

'Do not fear, it does not tip easily,' Erik told her, sounding as if he was disapproving of her childish worries. Once she was safely in, holding queasily onto the sides, he climbed into the gondola too, then pushed it away from the bank and into the darkness beyond.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Nothing could have prepared Antoinette for what she saw. Before her was spread not the makeshift living-place of a not-yet-adult boy, but a quaint and beautiful shrine to all that was artistic and musical. It was lit by a hundred candles, shining brightly from their candelabra, and the cold walls were draped with fabric to soften the chill. Cluttering small tables were odd contraptions, some of metal, most with wires attached and trailing everywhere. Erik saw her staring at them, and told her with rather bumptious haughtiness: 'I would rather you did not touch them. They are incomplete and fragile.' Antoinette would have responded to this, but his voice - his voice was such a powerful thing that she felt just like a child in his presence rather than the other way around. Once again she wondered: how could a set of vocal chords bend the minds of others? She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, but then forgot her wariness the moment she saw the organ.

It was an immense, grand pipe organ, climbing up the entirety of the wall, its metal pipes gleaming in the light from their intricately carved wooden niches. Some pipes were so big Antoinette could easily have dropped into one, while others were only about the width of her wrist. This instrument seemed to be Erik's most favoured toy of all in his "lair" - his eyes shone with pride when he saw she was gawping at it, his entire expression saying 'It is mine!'.

'Erik..._how_ on _earth_...?' Antoinette began weakly, gazing up at the towering pipes in the centre.

'A few letters made people quite happy to help me with it,' Erik said jovially, not taking his eyes from the grandeur. She raised her eyebrows.

'Help...?'

'Yes, providing the material and whatnot,' he told her, waving a hand dismissively. 'It was rather fun. Though I do so hate writing...it's impossible to put _my _voice onto paper - only empty words that cannot influence anybody! But of course, using the _right_ words is an entirely different matter...' Antoinette listened in shock to his babbling for a while before he said brightly: 'Would you like me to play it for you?'

She nodded warily, knowing she did not really have a choice, and he gleefully went to perch himself on the small bench before the monumental instrument's long, multiple keyboards. She watched in complete stupefaction as the boy, so small, thin and insignificant in the organ's shadow, ran his long fingers gracefully over the keyboards, pulling the odd lever with a flourish, pushing the occasional pedal with a foot. The sound he created was unbelievable; it was beyond glorious, it was _heavenly_. The curve of his white neck glowed in the gloom as he bent his head, his equally pale hands moving furiously. The crashing cascade of notes on the shrill, thinner pipes, supported by rhythmically altering chords and deep thrums from the larger pipes, flowed over Antoinette unstoppably, and she found herself shaking from head to toe - not just from the exaltation of the music, but from the stirrings of fear within her. As his music grew more and more frenziedly discordant and beautiful and heartrending, Antoinette felt the fear culminate within her, rising up to loom over her, until she could take it no more -

'_Stop_!' The piercing cry left her before she could hold it back - it was a wonder that Erik heard her over the thunderous noise, but he did. The haunting melodic sound came to a halt, echoing eerily around the cave and growing fainter and fainter, but still hanging in the air all around. Her fear of it was so great that she did not notice the frown of surprise and mild hurt puckering his brow.

'What's the matter?' he asked, sounding slightly sulky at her worried, white face. 'Is it not the most magnificent thing you have ever heard?'

'Yes, and that is what frightens me,' Antoinette told him frankly. 'Erik, you are only fourteen, or fifteen. A boy your age would be still on piano, or even just starting it, as I know most do not usually care for music. But you...you are composing _on the spot_, at - at that huge pipe organ that would take _years_ for an adult to even learn how to master!'

However, the concern in her tone was completely lost on him. He beamed as if it were a compliment, and said smugly: 'It only took me a few days to discover everything about it. I did not need more -'

'Exactly! _A few days_!' She was very worried indeed, now. 'How can such a thing be? It is not _normal_ -'

'_I_ am not normal.'

Her words stuck in her throat immediately at his soft murmur. She watched him; he was sitting slightly hunched, a faraway, haunted expression in his eyes as he stared unseeingly at the floor. It appeared to have been a thought that had crossed his mind many, many times in the past, which was dreadful. There was a flicker of darkness, far more fearsome than his talent, across his face, and then he reached out for his mask. Once covered by the white leather, he rose, his freakishly long fingers fastening the bow at the back of it.

'I'm sorry Erik,' Antoinette said softly. 'I only meant that it is disconcerting to see somebody so young already so advanced. I have not heard anything like your music in my whole life.'

'I know. You never will,' he replied, with equal quietness to his velvety voice, and then turned away.


	6. Chapter 6: The Rise of the Phantom

_**A/N:**__** Definition of relief: thinking you have one week of holidays, and on the second-last day tearing your hair out because of not-done homework, and then discovering that you actually have a whole week more of holiday to do it in. So now I have more time to write, contrary to what I thought:D**_

_**Yay! Reviews! Thanks to JoJo Fairly (OK, I won't ask...yes, I didn't know about Gerry before I saw the movie, too, and I prefer the crazy Leroux version of Erik anyway ;D) and Bearer of Christ (oh dear, I'm blushing! I love writing about Erik rocking out at his music...glad you're happy!) for the encouragement.**_

_**Watch out...crazy Erik moment ahead...;)**_

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Jean-Marie Aderne cursed. This was the second time this day that some problem occurred to him. _Ten years_, he'd been a stagehand. _Ten_! And still the newer workers could not follow his example and tie _proper_ knots for once...only this morning a huge set piece had been about to fall and crush Madame Rousseau and her ballet girls, and had he not managed to secure the knots just in time, then the cleaners would be having a rough time at the moment...

And now _this_. Jean-Marie shook his head and sighed irritably, muttering under his breath. He had been hoisting up a backdrop when the pulley-wheel had become jammed, which meant that he would now have to heave himself up to free it. Oh, how he _hated_ this job sometimes...why weren't the boys made to clamber up instead? Still, nobody was around, so he was forced to do it. With a grimace, Jean-Marie picked up a long, tapering ladder that rested against a wall, and leant it against the nearest rafter. Uncertainly, he put his dusty-booted feet on the first rung, then proceeded to climb, slowly and hesitantly. Goodness knew, he wasn't getting any younger...shouldn't have to climb these blasted ladders all the time...

When he was younger, Jean-Marie did indeed have a head for heights, which made his employment as a stagehand very quick; now, however, this was dwindling, and he had to remind himself repeatedly not to look down. Forehead gleaming a little, he puffed his way to the top, giving a sigh of relief as his fingers touched the wood of the beam. Now all he needed to do was find that pulley and free it...he knew it was somewhere above the stage, so he would need to get onto this beam and crawl across, over the void...oh, God. He didn't feel so good anymore. Mopping his face with a grubby handkerchief, Jean-Marie prepared to hoist himself onto the rafter - when something in the shadows nearby moved slightly, catching his eye. He frowned, staring into the gloom where the tiny window's light did not reach. There was a shape there, crouched on the rafter, looking downwards at the stage like a bird of prey. From what he could see from the shape's long back and wild black hair, it was a boy, sitting there without a hint of _vertige_.

'Christophe? Is that you?' Jean-Marie said. 'Everybody's gone for their break...could you perhaps fix that pulley for - _God save me_!'

The shape had sharply turned his way, revealing itself to be most certainly not Christophe the young stagehand. It had the face of a corpse, emaciated, dead and horrible, with sunken cheeks and the most freakishly yellow eyes, which caught the light from below and reflected it like a cat's. The sudden sight of this ghoulish monster made Jean-Marie start back, forgetting he was on a ladder. The ladder consequently dislodged itself from the rafter and toppled backwards, taking a still-horrified Jean-Marie with it. The beast mercifully disappeared from view, the rafters swinging away wildly as the ground came nearer and finally hit with a crash, before everything went blissfully black.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

'Jean-Marie! What happened to you?'

'Careful, I think his arm's broken -'

'Jean-Marie? Wake up!'

The fallen stagehand opened bleary eyes, then gave a strangled cry at the memory of what he had seen. 'Aaah! Ooh, my _arm_...' He appeared not to pay much heed to his broken arm, for his eyes were haunted and full of terror. 'Oh...it was so horrible...so horrible...' he groaned, glancing in fear towards the rafters above. The other stagehands, who had come running at the sound of the phenomenal crash, looked worriedly at each other.

'I think he's still in shock,' one said.

Another peered at him. 'Jean-Marie?' He was shaking quite badly, and did not reply. 'I don't know _how_ he could have fallen...he's used to climbing ladders, after all -'

'I _saw_ something!' Jean-Marie suddenly cried. 'Up there! On the rafters! An awful creature...so fearsome and deathly!'

His colleagues glanced at each other. 'Paul, go and check,' said the one nearest to Jean-Marie, and a sandy-haired worker shrugged and picked up the fallen ladder, placing it against the rafters.

'You don't want to see it, boy! It's awful...the sight'll make you fall, like I did!' moaned Jean-Marie, but Paul climbed further, looking slightly wary now. They were sure Jean-Marie was just raving, but then again...there was _something_ about the huge, grand halls of the Opéra Populaire that elicited a strange feeling of...being watched. Now all of the stagehands looked up at Paul as he hesitantly reached for the rafter, pulling himself up...

'I don't see anything.' All but Jean-Marie visibly relaxed.

'But it's _there_! Surely it must still be there...' he gibbered, but he was ignored. Paul climbed back down again, a slight smile on his face.

'It's completely empty, Jean-Marie, as usual,' he said. 'I think your eyes must have been playing tricks on you.'

'You don't believe me? You don't believe there's something strange around here?' Jean-Marie flared up, and then another stagehand spoke, sheepishly.

'He has a point...you do hear stories, don't you? Last week Isabelle saw a dark shadow run across a corridor in front of her and disappear _into the wall_. All the ballet corps were talking about it, didn't you hear?'

There was a murmur of agreement. 'I think I might have seen odd shadows around, myself...' said another. 'But enough talk of shadows. Let's get Jean-Marie away from here so that we can get his arm fixed.'

Two men helped him up, and the group shuffled towards the door. All the while Jean-Marie was groaning in fear: 'Shadows? This was worse than a shadow...if you had seen its face...! It was the most hideous thing I have ever set eyes upon! Ghastly - appalling! Its terrifying ugliness is enough to burn...such hellish, nightmarish features...oh, God help me if I see it again...so hideous...so sickeningly hideous...'

As their voices faded away, there was a brief moment of stillness. Then, from behind a set piece propped against a wall a short distance away, a pair of lachrymose, melancholy golden eyes flickered from the shadows. An unseen, pale hand gently touched the invisible face with long, shaking fingers, feeling the white, delicate skin that was becoming damp from the tracks of moisture silently running down it. Erik trembled, then his hands clenched into fists as his restrained tears of hurt gave way to a dark, all-consuming rage. He would not endure this again. He had gotten enough of it from his mother, and from the gypsies and from the countless, endless spectators who had come to gawp at him...he knew every curse, every variation of the word 'ugly' and 'terrible'. It had been so long since he had last heard it all...and now he knew for sure that he would never, _ever_ be accepted. His fragile childhood hope, nurtured through his solitude like a weak plant in the darkness, had been mercilessly crushed in one instant.

_So hideous_..._so sickeningly hideous_...Erik's fists began to shake as memories came rushing back. _Oh, my - no, don't look darling, don't look, it's AWFUL!...Urgh - m'sieur, is that a real BOY? It can't be...Bertrand - Bertrand, come look at this thing!...Can it talk?...Eeeek! Maman, it doesn't have a nose!...Are you sure it's alive - OH! Oh, it's watching me!...Don't go too near it, dear, it might have something contagious...Goodness, I've never seen anything so fearsome!...disgusting!...terrifying!...dreadful...that's the most monstrous thing I've...ghastly!...hideous...so sickeningly hideous! _Erik clutched at his head, eyes squeezed shut as the countless, nameless voices of his past burnt through his mind, growing louder and louder, until they were replaced by a single cry - a woman's, one he knew very, very distantly and one he had been scarred by the most deeply: _I hate you, Erik! I hate you!_

Every ounce of darkness put inside his mind since his miserable birth, every sliver of shadow that had boiled silently within the boy through his childhood, finally culminated and claimed him completely. Half-blinded with black fury, Erik lashed out with a fist, making a fractured dent in the spare set piece he hid behind. The wood splintered, drawing blood from the thin, pulsing blue veins lacing around his knuckles, and the set piece overbalanced, making the length of spare rope resting upon it slip down and land around the maddened boy's shoulders. He grabbed at it, throwing it away, still boiling with hatred of all who had hated him, all who had shunned him and harmed him and snatched away every last feeble hope and dream of his. Oh, if the world could be blind...! When the red mists cleared, Erik found, to his morbid awe, that he had not actually thrown the rope from himself. In fact, it was still in his hands - with a knot in it. A very familiar, very ominous knot that _he had no recollection of tying_.

He found he didn't care. No, he did not care at all. Why should he restrain himself so carefully when there was no purpose to it? Why must he always hide in shadow, being careful to cause as little damage as possible? They would see...yes, they would _see_ now, what fear really meant! Teeth bared in a fierce snarl of vindictive glee, Erik was about to run out from the shadows with the noose in hand when a small amount of near-sanity came to him. Perhaps he should not rush in just yet...perhaps he should not kill immediately...

Yes, agreed Erik with himself and his twisted logic. He would harm them in different, more subtle, more _amusing_ ways. He would hound them day and night, not terrorising them in direct contact, but in little ways: shadows moving in the corner of their eyes, cold gusts of air, _voices_ talking - yes! voices, that would be grand! - and small _accidents_, like the broken arm today...minor accidents, but nevertheless enough to drive them mad with the terror of something strange and unseen doing harm to them eventually...

Erik grinned darkly to himself. Yes - he would be very subtle indeed. He would be as silent as a ghost, and ten times as frightening. That was what he was! The Opera ghost - the Opera's very own phantom!

Leaving the noose hanging artistically by the set piece, he ran swiftly for the nearest of his many trapdoors, eager to lose himself in the safety of the darkness once more.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Thus was created the legend - the legend that made chorus members and ballet corps alike jittery and nervous whenever a cold wind blew, that made stagehands check every shadow to calm their nerves. Some argued that the Phantom had been inhabiting the Opera since its construction, others said he was a malignant spirit raised to haunt the Opera because of an old curse or a manager's blunder - but all agreed that the strange happenings had begun quite recently. Cleaners sweeping the stage at night reported hearing bouts of mad laughter issuing from different places at once, ballerinas swore to have seen a shadowy figure leaping across rafters above their heads, and some stagehands even claimed to have come in direct contact with a wraithlike, tall being wearing a full white mask. Myths and rumours were swapped every day, and soon everybody knew at least ten different tales, some truer than others, of the Opera Ghost.

But what of the Ghost himself - the thin boy driven half-insane by his lifetime of torment and hardship? He still hid deep in the cellars. If one was to go deep enough underground, the sound of a pipe organ playing could be faintly heard from outside the hidden lair. It was painful, continuous music, full of a dreadful passion that could almost shake the very foundations of the Opera itself. But when it stopped, there invariably came trouble, as whoever was deep enough in the cellars to listen to the mysterious music was sure to be found by the Ghost himself, on his way up through the building.

On one such occasion when the unearthly music stopped, Erik was more or less happy to find that nobody was standing in the cellars straining their ears. He hated it when people came too close to his lair; it was _his_ lair, and the underground world was all _his_, too! Only he was brave enough to conquer it alone, when all others went down into that darkness armed with lanterns. He could make his way through darkness easily...and this was what proved to be one of his most dangerous talents.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Erik stealthily stalked through the gloomy corridor behind the chapel walls. He was feeling very much in need of fresh air, for it had been quite a few days since he had emerged onto the roof, and he missed the freedom of the height. Dreaming of the sight of Paris stretched out all around him as far as the eye could see, Erik allowed himself a small, lopsided smile as he strode down the corridor -

He froze, flattening himself against the wall immediately, smile gone and eyes wary. _There was somebody in his passage!_ Erik stood still for a moment until his initial shock faded away, and he began to remember that he was in the darkness - invisible. A very different smile curled his lips; _he_ was not the one in danger - it was the trespasser who would be the one who needed to worry! Like a preying cat, Erik softly moved towards the patch of lantern-light and the shape near it. He had the advantage of being in his element - and completely unseen...

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Antoinette stood waiting in the passage. She knew there was probably _no_ chance he would come this way, but it was worth trying. After all, she had _much_ to say to him...

No sign of him yet. She frowned; perhaps she should come back later...she had the most ominous feeling about this gloom...

Antoinette turned her head to squint into the darkness of the long passage. Nothing but darkness...darkness and damp and - wait! What on _earth_ was that? She gazed in dumb shock at a pair of eerie, faintly luminous golden discs that hovered quite some way off the ground. They were floating nearer and nearer, their yellowish glitter mesmerising her. With a jolt, she realised that she must be staring at a pair of beastial eyes that reflected the light of her lantern. Her first thought was that some huge predatorial creature was making its way towards her with slow deliberation, but then she had enough presence of mind to pick up her lantern and shine it directly at the glinting eyes.

'Argh!'

A tall, pale boy dressed in a black shirt and breeches flung his arms convulsively over his masked face as the sudden blast of light illuminated him, momentarily blinding his sensitive eyes. Antoinette recognised the bony limbs well enough.

'Erik!' she said accusingly. 'Why did you not tell me of your presence? I have been waiting for you for a long time, here in the dark!'

Eyes narrowed behind the mask, Erik scowled at her, still shying away from the light.

'I did not know who you were - I thought it was another meddler,' he grumbled. 'And might I ask _how_ you managed to sense my presence?'

Antoinette was about to divulge it, but then realised that if she did, he would find a way to stop his eyes from being seen and consequently be able to sneak up on people and do immense harm that way. 'I had a feeling,' she said lightly, and he scoffed.

'Indeed!'

'Erik, I came here to talk to you about something very important,' Antoinette said sharply, bringing him back. Erik leant against a dark wall, crossing his painfully thin arms.

'Talk, then; I don't believe I am stopping you,' he replied calmly, appearing not to notice Antoinette's stern look.

'If that is so, then could you please tell me what you know about the so-called Opera Ghost, please?' she asked him with biting politeness. Her words had disappointingly little effect on Erik; instead of having the decency to even look chastened, he smiled widely.

'Ah, so you have heard, too?' he said. 'Well, I myself have heard tell that he is a rather intimidating fellow who haunts the Opéra Populaire and makes everybody quite frightened in consequence. Apparently he wears a mask, which he leaves off at other times to scare people...oh, yes, and he is very musical indeed. Very musical. He sounds like a chap I could get along with, doesn't he? The managers don't seem to like him much, which I'm sure he would be upset about. They ignore his letters all the time and -'

'_You talk to the managers_?' Antoinette gasped, appalled. Erik did not seem to hear her.

'I have heard many descriptions of him, too, that are rather amusing,' he continued, still smiling. 'He has been described as blond, red-haired, brown-haired, white-haired, black-haired...bald (because some say he is just a skeleton, you see)...and I even heard an imaginitive account of him having hell-fire as hair! Or was it as his eyes? I cannot recall...dear me, they are all so serious when they talk of him, you should see their faces...!'

'Erik, answer me! Were you really reckless enough to communicate with the actual managers of the Opera?' asked Antoinette, now angry. 'You know I have said that you _must not_ -'

'Erik does as he _pleases_!' he cried suddenly, aflame with abrupt rage. 'Nobody can tell him what to do! He can think for himself!'

'But his thoughts are not always right, are they?' Antoinette shouted back. 'Erik, when will you _see_? You cannot live alone and away from people forever! You -'

'Then I _won't_ live!' Erik snarled, towering fearsomely over her with fiery eyes. 'I will be a Phantom, and nobody will ever catch me because they are all too slow and _stupid_!'

'If that is what you choose, then go! Fester away on your own in your damp lair - if it is what you want, then I shan't stop you!' Antoinette yelled. 'I am not meeting you again, anyway; I'm getting married and I'll have somebody more deserving of my care to run about after!'

'_Do you think it _matters_ to me_? I DON'T _NEED ANYONE_!' Erik bawled. 'I was on my own since the day I was born, so why should you ever think I need anyone now?'

'Because you're unstable, look at you!' cried Antoinette. 'You distance yourself so much from others that you are becoming mad!'

'_DO YOU THINK I CHOOSE TO DISTANCE MYSELF? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE TO ENDURE WITH THIS FACE OF MINE?_' roared Erik, completely beside himself now. His voice was thunderous with his rage, loud enough to make Antoinette stumble back. She had gone a step too far, and now his inhuman voice was beginning to shake her, all of his fury concentrated in those melodic vocal cords of his. Such was the power of the sound that she was beginning to feel it like a physical pain; she backed a step further from him as he took a step forwards. He was much younger than she was, but far taller, and though he was skeletally thin the murderous rage in his eyes told her to keep well away. It was apparent that it was far too late to save him from the shadows of his past; they had already claimed him. And now she had made him furious...

His long fingers flexed, as if about to fasten themselves around her throat and choke the life from her, but some last fragment of self-control in him made him turn away suddenly and run away, back down the passage and out of sight.

**--------------------------------------------------------**

Erik's fingers were raw and the soft skin of his fingertips was beginning to harden as he clashed out his symphony of livid, choleric rancour on his grand pipe organ. The cavern echoed with each furious chord, each shrieking note, the water of the lake trembling with the sound. The rats that had escaped the rat-catchers reared up on their hind legs behind the walls at the thunderous clamour of rage, whiskers twitching as they sniffed the air, staring with beady black eyes at the invisible anger in music form that poured through the deepest cellars.

Erik's shoulders were tensed as his fingers moved, changing position seamlessly, flying over the keys...his right hand descended the topmost keyboard, touching black-white-black-white-black in an uncontrollable shrill of falling notes. He did not need to _think_ where to put his hands, what key to press or what sequence of notes to bring his hand down on - his fingers moved by themselves, fuelled by the boiling bitterness in his insides. His feet slipped over and kicked sharply at pedals, levers being wrenched to create a sound so dissonantly powerful that one could almost believe hell itself had opened up and expelled the devil himself in the form of sound.

Erik's eyes were unfocussing; his mask had long been wrenched off, and his exposed face was feverish and tense. When finally his demonic piece had come to an end, the resounding thrum of the huge central pipe combined with the sustained chords his hands had crashed down on created some form of vibration in the air, which made a very different sound begin to tinkle in the ringing silence that followed. As the ghostly echoes of that final chord faded away into the network of canals and passages, there came, from somewhere within the lair, the haunting tune of a music-box.

His breathing slowly becoming more even, Erik frowned and turned. He remembered that tune - it was his very first composition as a child. Getting up from the bench, he left the organ and made his way across his home, in search of the sound. It caused an odd feeling of calm in him, and he soon found the music-box sitting on a rickety old table that had been shaken by the organ music. Gently, he picked up the music-box, smiling slightly at the familiar sight of the little barrel-organ he had constructed a long time ago. Sitting on top of it was none other than Pantin - a little aged, but still the same. He was chiming his cymbals together in perfect time with the music, the beat he kept altering and variating, never the quite same twice, but always in time. His stitched smile was also unchanged, and Erik remembered his trepidation when he was younger upon having to cut the stuffed monkey up to make it play by itself. Now, however, Pantin seemed quite content, and Erik recalled very well the small comfort he had brought him when he was a child...

The mannequin, too, he had still retained. She still stood in his lair, but in a tiny room of her own this time. She was a little bare now, because Erik liked to wear her cloak, but she still wore her hat, which he did not borrow as often. She had also changed quite a bit, too; she barely ever talked to Erik now - only when he was feeling very lonely. It was certain that Erik had changed, too...his world seemed darker, far more empty sometimes than when he had been a child - but he was more in control now. He had not only overcome his fear of the darkness, but he had become the master of it, and used it to his advantage.

Erik smiled to himself. Perhaps it was time for the Opera Ghost to take a walk above ground again...


	7. Chapter 7: 20,000 francs

_**A/N:**__** Oh, dear I forgot to say - I'm afraid this chapter is the last in this fic! You know story length isn't a strength of mine...:(**_

_**Never mind; a big, final thanks to everybody who was nice and reviewed (Carillon, AuroraSky, Kitten-nin, Bearer of Christ, Freedom Tide and JoJo Fairly) - I luv ya. You all helped me to write whenever I just couldn't be arsed - thank you!**_

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It was on a bright, warm day that Antoinette returned to the Opéra. The weather was unusually good, as if mocking her deep, despairing sadness. It had been a long, long time since she had come here - a good few years, in fact. During those few years much had happened, both wonderful events and terrible. As she walked up the steps of the Opéra, she recalled her boundless joy when she had become Madame Antoinette Giry, standing in the little church by her darling Raymond's side...oh, she had been so happy then! So wonderfully happy...

And then, even better had come; she had given birth to the dearest little baby girl, the darling daughter of her and Raymond. Meg, they had named her, and she was growing to be a fine young child. Antoinette could see very clearly that Meg was going to have a bright future as a ballerina, and was very glad of it. Meg would certainly go far with dancing, since her mother knew so much about ballet already!

Antoinette's face fell as she recalled what had turned her life irreversibly upside-down and made her days so terribly long and grey; the previous year, her poor, poor husband had taken ill and become consequently bedridden, unable to get up or even walk to the window to look outside as he had always liked to do. One horrible night, he had coughed and coughed, and by the time the doctor had arrived he was dead. Antoinette was a widow, left alone in the world with a young daughter to raise, plagued with distant memories of her beloved Raymond...

She had changed beyond recognition; the sweet, demure Antoinette had been abruptly replaced by a stern, cold woman whose only way of stopping herself from drowning in sorrow was to steel herself against the world. She smiled less and less, for she had no reason to - the only thing that kept her truly sane was her lovely Meg. She could not afford to lose herself and deny Meg a proper upbringing, so she clung grimly onto the real world, forsaking emotion so as to avoid the crippling grief that threatened her.

Women were widowed every day, she knew that, but not all recovered from it as she did. Doubtlessly, she would never marry again, but she would definitely not spend the rest of her days moping around aimlessly. So here she returned, to the Opéra Populaire, because she had been given the post of ballet mistress, an immense honour for as devoted a dancer as she. With all certainty, she would take pride in tutoring and directing the ballerinas, for it was a great privilege - and besides, Madame Rousseau had been getting a little old anyway.

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'I beg your pardon?' Antoinette stared at the manager with wide eyes, and he looked a little uncomfortable.

'I know this is all very irregular, but I'm afraid we are forced to reduce payment by a small percentage because our own funds are being sapped,' he confessed. Antoinette frowned.

'Sapped? By what?'

He shifted in his chair. 'Well...we have to keep paying the Ghost's monthly wages -'

She stiffened suddenly, all senses on alert at the mention of the infamous Phantom who had once been the boy she had looked after. 'His _wages_? How much must you pay him?'

'Er...well, he asks for twenty thousand, in return for keeping the Opéra a safer place -'

Antoinette was appalled. She had known Erik was a little twisted in his notions of right and wrong, but she never thought he would sink to the level of extortion! Her immediate thought was to find him quickly and force him to give up this terrible blackmailing...but then a sudden memory of a livid, white face contorted in an inhuman rage looming up in front of her made her resolve weaken. She may have been able to control him as a young boy, but now...now he was grown, and he was impossible to govern. She dreaded to think what would happen if she angered him or underestimated his limits...

However, one thing was for certain; she would definitely need to see him. How old must he be now? Seventeen, eighteen? Perhaps his mind had become more stable with age, and he had grown out of his terrible adolescent tempers. Although she regretted having left him on such bad terms when he was still growing and frustrated, she decided that it had probably been for the best. She knew that sometimes it was best to keep one's distance...who knew what emotional turmoil would have made him take his anger out on anything he saw...

Bravely, though, Antoinette reached a firm conclusion: she would search for Erik today, wherever he was in this building. She would need to talk to him about this outrageous "Opera Ghost" situation...and perhaps even make amends for the raging argument they had parted with when they had seen each other last.

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The cellars were just as dark and dingy as usual...but unfamiliarly free of spider-webs in the passage behind the chapel. Perhaps the regular passing of a certain young man had disinclined the spiders from stretching their webs across the corridors? Antoinette held her lantern high above her head, trying make it cast light upon as much of the passage as possible as she slowly made her way down it. Her heart was beating quickly; the thought of a creature as fearsome as Erik lurking in this darkness was enough to unsettle her quite a bit. Would he recognise her, if he saw her? Would _she_ recognise _him_, if he had grown again? Antoinette sighed deep in her throat; of course she would. How could she not, when he had such an unfortunate deformity...

On she went, traipsing through the cold shadows and wondering how on earth she would find the elusive Erik in such a maze of passages. He lived across the lake, didn't he? And how would she ever get to his home, if the boat was not there? Her mood darkened with each step, as she realised just how slim her chances of finding Erik - and, indeed, of actually reaching his home - were.

To distract herself from this, she began to dwell upon all the rumours she had heard to do with the so-called Phantom. Each had been more fantastic and unbelieveable than the last, and even though not many were very credible, she became sure Erik would need a firm talking-to once she got her hands on him. It seemed as if during these past years he had been behaving like a child - like a mischievous child, trying to see how far he can go with his tricks without being punished. Most of these tricks appeared to be more harmless and playful than others, and from what Antoinette had heard, some of these tricks were becoming slightly more sinister than others too. It was best for her to find him, now, and tell him that even though she was sorry for having abandoned him in such a fashion, he needed to stop meddling with the affairs of the Opéra, or he would end up being caught.

Antoinette paused; she thought she could hear the high buzz of an electrical bell somewhere in the distance, sounding almost like an alarm. It didn't seem to be anywhere near - was she going in the wrong direction? She held her lantern close to her face, peering through the darkness for a turning she may have missed. Maybe she should go back and -

Antoinette cried out in alarm as something rough and snake-like whipped through the air silently and landed around her neck. In a lightning-fast movement, the loop closed with a jerk, bringing her wrist sharply against the side of her neck and causing her to drop her lantern at the same time. It smashed on the hard stone floor, the candle inside extinguishing immediately and letting the shadows close in.

Antoinette struggled madly, her heart pounding in her chest as the knowledge dawned on her that had she not been holding the lantern close to her head, the rope - for rope it was - would have effortlessly snapped her neck in that single, brutal movement. Now she fought to loosen it and free herself, before she suddenly caught sight of a pair of terrifying golden eyes gleaming in the blackness.

'Erik!' she gasped, and she heard him start back in shock. 'Erik, I know it is you - get this rope off me this instant!' To her relief he hastened to do so, his cold fingers dextrously flicking the lasso from around her neck.

'Antoinette?'

'Yes, it is _me_ you were about to strangle so heartlessly,' she snapped at him. 'Might I ask the reason for these appalling actions of yours?'

There was a pause. 'I warned everybody to stay out of these areas, as they were dangerous,' replied the eerily soft voice. 'I must protect my home, after all, from the destructive hands of men. It was not my intention to take action against you, I can assure you - I merely heard the alarm and thought I had been disobeyed. Now, I suppose you would prefer it if we conversed in a more hospitable place...'

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Antoinette found herself once more in the Erik's quaint underground home, surrounded by the glorious works of art he had produced over time, and sitting opposite the man himself as he reclined, long legs crossed casually, in a high-backed armchair. She regarded him with narrowed eyes, taking him in. He had not changed very much since the last time she had seen him; he definitely seemed older and far more graceful, and he wore a new mask, but apart from that he remained completely the same.

She eyed his clothing; it was suspiciously fine, and she did not doubt that at least some of the extortionate sum of money he had demanded from the managers had gone towards the rich garments he wore. His black suit of fine quality was backed with an equally exquisite cloak that warded off the subterranean chill of the cellars he haunted, and all articles of his clothing fit him very well. She was surprised to see that they did not hang from his skeletal frame, but clung comfortably to him like any ordinary person's would.

'I see you appear to have quite a taste for fine clothes,' Antoinette remarked, and Erik gave a wide grin.

'I do, indeed...one might say it compensates for the rags I was forced to wear as a child,' he replied, absent-mindedly fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 'But it's rather tiresome to have all of my suits always custom-tailored...I'm of quite a particular build, as you can see, and they need to be taken in quite a bit. However, I know many efficient tailors who are glad to do the job for a reduced sum.'

'Paid well, aren't you?' Antoinette said bitingly, making him understand instantly what her point was.

'Ah...I see you have perhaps heard of the little agreement the managers and I have come to,' he commented blithely. 'Before you set upon me with your doubtlessly well-founded arguments, I would like you to understand that I need _some_ form of income to cover my bare necessities. How else am I to earn - what sane employer would give a job to somebody like me? It is far better this way -'

'Erik, you'll make the Opéra close down from bankruptcy! You'll ruin them, and then -'

'They have patrons, don't they? Rich snobs who come and scatter their pennies here?'

'You don't understand -'

'_Please_. Don't meddle in my affairs, Antoinette,' Erik said with sudden sharpness, a flash of annoyance glittering in his amber eyes. 'I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you kindly.'

Antoinette sighed, defeated. She did not know what to reply to him any more - he had become independant, and frighteningly so. She did not dare snap back and risk stirring his awful anger.

He seemed to calm down gradually, and then he regarded her with his head to one side slightly. 'Enough of me,' he continued conversationally. 'What of you? I remember you telling me - or rather, shouting at me, if I remember correctly - that you were to be married. I assume all is well?'

The pain resurfaced in her, but she managed to fight it down. No, she would not display any weakness now...she took a deep breath, and told him: 'I was married, and I have a lovely young daughter...but I lost my husband last year.'

The mask hid Erik's expression, but when he spoke, his tone was gentle. 'Forgive me. How did this tragedy occur?' he asked, with soft, polite curiosity.

'Oh...consumption, the doctor said,' Antoinette answered. 'There was nothing to do about -'

'_Consumption_?' Antoinette looked up at him in shock. His voice was full of disbelief.

'...yes,' she affirmed hesitantly.

Erik appeared strangely angry all of a sudden. 'Oh, you foolish woman, if it was only consumption I could well have saved him! I have made many discoveries over the years, and had you but come and told me...'

Antoinette stared at him with wide eyes. 'You...you know how to treat it? Cure it?'

'Why, yes, what do you take me for?' he said tetchily. A feeling of leaden despair descended into the pit of her stomach. So he could have done something about it...he could have saved Raymond - if she had only known, her poor husband would still be alive...!

'I didn't know...' whispered Antoinette, full of horror, then looked up at him beseechingly. 'Erik, how could I have known?'

Erik sighed, looking vaguely ashamed. 'Forgive me,' he said again. 'You are perfectly right...but what brings you back here? That is what I suppose I should have asked...'

'I have been appointed as mistress of ballet here,' Antoinette told him, feeling a hint of pride stir inside her. 'I shall be teaching.'

'Excellent. I assume you are happy, then?'

'Why, yes,' she replied, slightly taken aback for a moment, but then she smiled in return to his own grin.

'Very well then,' he said, suddenly business-like. 'I must put you on the right path back above now; your lessons will probably be starting soon. Oh, and Antoinette?'

'Yes?'

'I would advise that you stay away from the areas in the cellars that surround my lair,' he told her. 'They are not the best of places to be, and anyway I prefer to be left quite alone. If you are in need of my aid, you may most probably find me in the passage behind the chapel. Am I clear?'

Antoinette responded the affirmative, deciding that Erik would always, always be a quaint and rather sinister person, until the end of his days.

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One day, well after Antoinette Giry had long settled into the routine of ballet mistress, there was a knock upon the door of her house.

It was a rather dismal January morning, and she wondered who on earth it could be. Nobody she knew was likely to come visiting in this weather, when the sky was grey and the clouds threatening to rain over the streets of Paris. Leaving little Meg playing in the main room, she made her way across the modest wooden floor and arrived in front of the door. She opened it, and found a man on the doorstep. He looked vaguely embarrassed but still quite professional, and he enquired: 'Are you Madame Antoinette Giry?'

She frowned inquisitively. 'Yes, I am.'

The man looked relieved, and he stood to one side slightly. Antoinette wondered what he was doing at first, then saw that he had revealed a small, curly-haired girl who had been hidden behind him. Antoinette recognised the child straight away.

'Oh! Christine - Christine Daae, is that you?' she said, bending slightly. Upon seeing her, the girl ran towards her and buried her face in her skirts, beginning to howl. Antoinette patted the curly head anxiously, looking shocked. She turned back to the man, a questioning look upon her face.

'I'm afraid that your friend and acquaintance Gustave Daae has recently left us, and his daughter has nowhere to go,' he explained sadly. 'Monsieur Daae requested on his deathbed that she be put into your care, and he wished to apologise for any inconvenience it causes you.'

Antoinette put her hand to her mouth. 'Gustave...he is dead? Oh, no...oh, Christine, Christine...' She wrapped her arms tightly around the sniffling girl, fully understanding the reason for her tears. She could barely believe that her friend was dead...and now his poor daughter was left alone and orphaned. Antoinette looked up at the man. 'I will care for her, monsieur, and she shall be like a daughter to me. It is an honour that Gustave had enough trust in me to make me the guardian of his girl.'

The man nodded.

'Thank you, Madame. Good day. You may expect the paperwork in two day's time,' he said, sounding quite grateful, and then was gone.

Antoinette immediately bent and looked into Christine's face. 'Here, ma petite, it's going to be alright,' she said comfortingly, taking out her handkerchief and wiping the child's face. 'Don't worry; you're safe with me and Meg now.'

At the mention of her name, Meg crept out of the main room, looking concerned at her friend's tears. The two had been playmates for many a happy day, Antoinette fondly remembered. She was glad that Christine would have somebody her own age to talk with, and not just a stern widow like herself. Christine would never grow up lonely - she would make sure of it! As little Meg quietly began to talk to Christine, her young face full of concern, Antoinette found her thoughts going to the boy she had very unsuccessfully tried to finish raising. She had not known him, she argued with herself; she had not known to what extent his mind was scarred, nor what ordeals his appearance had put him through. But she knew, deep down, that she could definitely have helped him more than she did...whenever she had become angry at him, she knew now that he had only been testing his limits, doing as any child did. Now the boy was beyond her grasp; he was a man now, and he had become dangerous instead of mischievous. Antoinette sighed. She could not turn back time; if she did, she would become the helpless ballerina again, not knowing what to do with the demanding, hurt young boy. Looking out of the window, she decided that Christine's future would definitely be brighter.

Perhaps she should take her to the Opéra soon...? The girl had a nice voice; perhaps Antoinette could arrange for her to be a chorus girl later on?

_**The End...(or the beginning?)**_

_**Thank you again, everyone! And beware: my next fic will be **_**another**_** romance...**_


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